


The Beginner's Dive Into Masochism

by DemonDarakna



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets off on providing pain - not in the mean way, BDSM, Bodily Harm, Bondage, Crowley gets off on pain, Eventual Smut, M/M, No Plot, Panic Attacks, Sadomasochism, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sub!Crowley, bottom!Crowley, coz Crowley is a curious idiot, dom!Aziraphale, exploration of bdsm, friends first, how one genuinely starts with these things, idiots with a lot of free time, not sexy from the start, ropes, top!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonDarakna/pseuds/DemonDarakna
Summary: There are rare few earthly pleasures that Crowley and Aziraphale were denied throughout their lives amongst humanity. Now they accidentally stumble on one more. Missed only because they were trying it with wrong people.Lack of projects and untried delights forces the unlikely best friends to work towards self-discovery. Because there's nothing more dangerous to an angel and a demon than their own damn selves.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 149





	1. The Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ... I don't write fanfiction ... except when an idea bullies me into it.  
> And when you have an amazing online community that supports you on each step.  
> I was there just to read, I swear!  
> Tnx to my wonderful beta [Kittyknowsthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings)!  
> (Encouraging) feedback welcome.

_There is no coming to consciousness without pain.  
\- Carl Jung _

* * *

Here’s the thing. Crowley never actually liked pain before this. Sure, he’s been to hell and back, but honestly before ... just Before .... Crowley didn’t really feel physical pain. Either he got desensitized in the Fall or Hell just burned it all away with time. In fact, he can’t remember physical pain. Emotional sure, his will cracking like a too-boiled eggshell, the annoyance of his associates - even Aziraphale - the wrath burning at him from the inside once in Gabriel’s presence. But that acute feeling of a cut skin that isn’t merely a tingle ... that burn of a hit ... that zeroing in on one spot ... scattered focus waving goodbye, replaced by a head so clear it felt like a blank emptiness of both flying and falling ... That relief of making it better the slow, human way.

That was new.

And Aziraphale shaking off the tension as if he finally got a massage he was waiting a thousand thousand years for, grinning like an idiot, but eyes mad and so calculating behind that blue iris and a blown pupil.

That was new as well.

* * *

He didn’t know how they got here. How it all started. To be frank, he didn’t know anything but the delicious ache to his body as he was getting off the high. But little by little, in drops of the rain that covered a part of the world so long ago, it all came back until he was flooded. And Aziraphale was covering him with blankets and touches, so gentle now where before they were ruthless.

How it all began?

Well, boredom was some of it, certainly. No more assignments, no more Apocalypse. At least for now.

They were still an angel and a demon, but perhaps their hosts have been right. Perhaps they have gone a little bit native. Or a lot.

Not an immunity-against-hellfire-and-holy-water lot, but surely a testing-the-limits-of-their-own-sustainability lot.

* * *

He was the one who pushed Aziraphale first, as it always happened. Been too drunk to shut his yap. Whining about “this-this thingy see. Yeah, some people even get off on it. Pain.”

“But isn’t pain the fou-founda\- a pillar of Hell?”

“Mortal pain. Not really physical once you leave the body behind, angel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale swirled the last of the wine in his glass, considering if he’d rather continue to look at it or drink it. “I suppose you’re right.”

“‘Course I am,” Crowley said, nodding to himself, leaning back on the sofa, and promptly stretching out his legs free of shoes so far they ended up in Aziraphale’s lap all the way over there.

The bastard glared and tabled his glass of wine, pushing the feet and socks of questionable hygiene off his lap, brushing it free of any speckle of dust they might have left behind.

Boredom and alcohol ... of course alcohol had been involved. All of his more genius ideas came up when he was unable to pronounce the long words.

Crowley smiled that devil’s smile and just plopped his feet back, a twinkle in his eyes as he stared at the angel who looked for all the world like he had his feathers ruffled.

“Crowley,” he warned, voice small, but rough with drunkenness.

“Angel,” Crowley said, grinning wider. He had no idea what his plan was beyond annoying Aziraphale.

But the blasted angel really was listening to Crowley - wasn’t just zoning out with his love for wine - and as he touched the feet he didn’t throw them off again, he pressed one thumb deep into a muscle. A muscle that was clearly overworked and not at all relaxed.

What the hell? Knocking back on miracles really had side-effects!

Crowley jumped, squawking, pulling his feet back, except now Aziraphale was holding them in his grip, keeping them in his lap, the bastard.

“You said you wanted to feel pain,” he shrugged, failing to hide a small smile on his lips.

Crowley didn’t know if he wanted to hit him or kiss him. He didn’t know if he wanted to run or stay. Aziraphale decided for him, as he pushed the finger against the arch of his left foot, searching for another tense muscle - which was Crowley’s entire leg by the feel of it.

Crowley gasped like a drowning man, sliding further down the sofa.

“Exhale, dear,” Aziraphale told him, like he didn’t literally control Crowley’s reactions with his fingertips.

Crowley did so when the air had no place left to go but out. With surprise he found that it didn’t make the experience too bad. If only he could inhale now.

“That hurts,” he ground out when the pressure on his foot was released.

Aziraphale chuckled at that.

“No, you ... you don’t see,” Crowley felt surprisingly sober for someone who just downed a few bottles. “I don’t hurt. At least not in a way it would be bothersome.”

Aziraphale hmm-ed and then pressed a thumb into the other foot, mercilessly.

“Fuck- you bast-”

“Breathe,” Aziraphale didn’t sound drunk either. Cooler than usual, maybe a little worried, but not drunk.

Crowley tried. _Breathing. Can_ ’ _t be too hard. Don_ ’ _t have to do it, but ..._ For that exact moment it was difficult to discern what breathing actually was.

“Inhale,” Aziraphale reminded him, stroking circles deep into his sole.

Expansion of lungs and ribs. Right. It was like blowing up a balloon. A balloon doesn’t just blow up by itself, the air has to be pushed into it. _Let the air inside, you dumb idiot._ He did. It worked! This throat felt so dry.

“Exhale,” Aziraphale slowly said, doing the same. Fingers pressing.

Crowley mimicked him the best he could. A groan escaping with the air.

“Inhale.”

Yeah, okay, he got the hang of it now. What did that have to do with any-?

Wait.

The pain was more bearable during the exhale. Still there, but it felt like a blunt press.

On the inhale, the pain shifted. As if needles found the exact spot causing the hurt and forced it to relax.

He tested this for a few more breaths.

“Has anyone ever done this to you?” Aziraphale asked slowly, not looking up from his work.

“I mean, yeah, but it didn’t -” he hissed as he ran out of breath to finish the sentence.

“Any angel?” At this, Aziraphale looked up. His eyes burning with something Crowley had only seen when the angel was truly pissed off. But no, the aftertaste of it was different. Not anger then, but still passionate. The pressure subsided enough so he could speak.

“I kept away from your lot, as you well know.” He pushed the glasses further up his nose-bridge to hide the yellow of his eyes. “Besides, angels aren’t known for offering foot rubs to demons.”

Aziraphale hmm-ed again, and circled a heel, before pressing into it.

It wasn’t so bad this time; he expected it and reminded himself to breathe consistently.

“Makes sense. We’d much rather be smiting you.”

“Well,” Crowley grumbled, “yeah.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, a hand that held the foot up, releasing to move to the other. The finger still jammed in the muscle of the first. With his gentler hand, he found the same spot on the other side, pressing both fingers in each foot simultaneously, “we’d _much rather_ be smiting you.”

Crowley couldn’t think. He wasn’t ready for such an onslaught of pain. His feet wanting to escape the touch, but unable to do so. He tried to take in air, failed, tried again, half-succeeded. His chest hitching with the effort. His head fell back against the sofa and he groaned, voice embarrassingly high.

It all flooded back when it subsided, and for a moment Crowley’s mind felt fuzzy. A strange, new sort of feeling. Light as a fog, trapped inside a hollow rock. He could fly away, but would he know how to get back?

As soon as he got some of his bearings back, he sat up, pulled his feet close to himself, took off his glasses, and stared at Aziraphale. “What are you saying?” he choked. Why was he choking? Why was he even upset? Just because some fresh information happened to arise after 6000 years of knowing this angel. “You get off on it?”

Aziraphale dared to shrug. “Not in the explicit term. But yes, close enough.”

Crowley gaped.

“Revenge and justice on the deserving, Crowley,” Aziraphale continued, picking up the forsaken wine-glass. “How do you think that was going to happen? You think angels just do their jobs because it’s their job?”

“Well, you don’t,” Crowley’s brows furrowed.

“Yes, because I don’t want to kill my best friend,” Aziraphale said fast, downing the last of the red, and laying the empty glass on the table in a sense of finality.

It took him a moment. Okay, it took him two. He possibly resembled a fish out of the water, gasping for air. Again.

“It’s not really a switch,” Aziraphale admits. “We don’t see a demon and want to hurt a demon. But once you start ... you get a taste for it.”

“Did-” Crowley choked. “Did you ever start?”

Aziraphale looked at him honestly. “Not with a demon.”

“Human?”

Half a nod. “I did try it out. Dipped in the culture so to speak. Just to see. It’s not that difficult to resist with humans.”

“But with a demon?” Did he sound mournful? Hell, he hoped not! “Can you ... resist?”

Aziraphale measured him up and down. Stopping at the yellow eyes peeking from above the rims. “If you’re asking me if I want to smite you after a foot rub, then no. But I wouldn’t be averse to hearing and seeing you struggle again under my touch. It is quite affective, I must admit.”

Crowley thought, pressed into the back of the couch. Knocking his brain for pros and cons, wine burned away from his blood system. He was dizzy still, parched, but not uncomfortable. Honestly, he could go for another round. It _was_ addictive. “Would you? Try? If I asked you?”

“I would take great care not to go too far. But otherwise of course. If you wish to explore it further.”

“I mean, demons have to have something as well, don’t they? To fight back. Perhaps the tolerance?”

“Dear, you were withering after a simple foot massage,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“Was not!” Crowley protested “And besides, that wasn’t fair! I didn’t know what was happening.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I guess we’ll just have to try again. After we get our bearings back. It is late.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed in a hurry. Stuffing his still aching feet into his shoes. It was time to go, Aziraphale had some book to get back to. And he ... he had to mull some things over.

* * *

As soon as Crowley got home, he was climbing up walls. Not so much literally as his head felt like a jumper ball bouncing off everything it remotely touched. Well, everything except for what just happened with Aziraphale.

The talk, the foot rub, the pain … it was all so new.

… the pain.

Sure, Crowley knew _pain_. Or he thought he knew it. Deep mental trauma does that to a person, and he had a lot of that. He was Fallen for crying out loud. Deep mental trauma was his whole identity.

Except …

Except it all went into the black hole with the ideas and the mental monologue when those fingers pressed against the soles of his feet. For that moment, he was suspended between the mental and the physical. And then, with the help of Aziraphale, he was forced to focus on the physical alone.

It had been the most empty-minded minute of his existence.

He didn’t need to think it over. Not really. Not unless …

He punched into a wall. No miracle behind it, just his demonic power. It was still enough strength to crack the concrete. He shook his hand from pressure and cursed at the damage to the wall.

He looked at his hand. Bloody knuckles, a bit of bruising. Maybe broken bones. But no pain.

He healed it better. A minor miracle won’t hurt anybody. Fixed the wall while he was at it.

Damn.


	2. The Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so far, it's flowing smoothly ... I can't believe I'm finally writing again after months of a writer-block.  
> As always, comments are encouraged.
> 
> Note: most of this is my own personal experience which is the reason why it's moving at a bit of an ... unconventional pace.
> 
> Tnx to my wonderful beta [Kittyknowsthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings)!  
> 

_I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.  
\- Friedrich Nietzsche _

* * *

He slept that night as he often did. Starting deep, until slowly nightmares and ideas swirled into one beast, finally bucking him awake. He woke up itching.

During the early afternoon, he did everything and anything that came to his mind. He took a shower. He changed his clothes three times. He threatened his plants. He stood at the window, throwing the small pebbles from the pots at the passers-by.

He hit a wall again, this time more mindfully. Still broke his hand. Still felt nothing akin to what he felt last night.

He was just about to heal it when Aziraphale finally called.

* * *

Those wide blues stared at him as he stood at the back-door in what was probably a record time for him. “Did you forget I asked you-”

“To pick up these dumplings?” He asked, lifting his newly healed hand and a package of treats at the same time.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “I thought we agreed to keep the miracles to a minimum,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley started, stepped in as the angel took a step back. “Things happened. I multitasked.”

“Things?” Aziraphale asked with a tense voice, “What things would those be?”

“Broke my hand,” Crowley admitted, dropping the packet on the table and sitting down on a sofa, kicking off his shoes. “Had to heal it.”

Aziraphale took a moment to wrap his head around that while glancing at Crowley’s feet making themselves comfortable on the carpet. “How did you-?”

Crowley waved him off. “I experimented a bit. Didn’t work. Never you mind that. Sit,” he said motioning Aziraphale to the futon across from him.

Aziraphale reluctantly sat.

“Eat,” Crowley insisted.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale looked lost. “Shouldn’t I be making you your coffee first? Unless you’d like a bite.”

“Tea and coffee,” Crowley agreed. Got up. “I’ll take care of it. Eat,” he repeated and disappeared into the back-room where the angel kept an old stove and the few ingredients he needed on a daily basis.

When he came back, Aziraphale hummed around his food, swallowing as a cup of tea was set down on the table. “Thank you, my dear,” he smiled softly at Crowley, “you really are -”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley interrupted as he slid back into his spot across from the angel. Eyes on the last dumpling Aziraphale reached for.

He could be patient if he wanted to. He was patient. Just not when he had to wait. Inside, he was jittery, mind working a thousand thoughts per hour, invading - questions, ideas, insecurities, common sense, silly thoughts lining to take over.

Finally, Aziraphale moaned and sighed at the flavor of the crumbs he sucked from his fingers.

A clear sign he was done if Crowley ever heard one. In one smooth motion, his feet were unceremoniously plopped in the angel’s lap.

Aziraphale looked up, taken aback, questioning. “Crowley, what-?”

“I want to feel it again,” Crowley insisted and wriggled his socked toes to get his point across.

“Feel what again,” Aziraphale asked, head cocking to the side.

“The _thing_ ,” he couldn’t say it. Didn’t want to in case Aziraphale went a bit mental and overprotective. In case it was just alcohol talking last night. “The _thing_ from yesterday.”

“A foot massage?” Aziraphale asked, already reaching up. Either to give Crowley what he wanted or to push his legs off.

“Yeah … that.”

Crowley was never quite an enigma for the angel, he knew that. Not when it came to avoiding the true point staring them both in the face.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with understanding. Nodding as he let his hands fall on the demon’s ankles. “You already thought it through.” It was not a question. “I imagined one would need more time.”

“Yeeeaaah,” Crowley started, “see, I’ve Fallen, I turned into a snake, I’ve tempted mankind, I stopped the Apocalypse. I’m running out of new things to try, so …” He wriggled his toes again.

Aziraphale’s look could be considered a bit of a glare. But his hands did start moving, unfortunately in the wrong direction. Crowley tensed as he felt him slide to his calf, underneath the trouser legs.

“Oi, what are you -”

Fingers found the edge of his socks and pulled, rolling them down and off.

Aziraphale held them away from him like they were some sort of a biohazard. “If you insist on touching my freshly pressed trousers with your feet, I request that you take these off next time.” He dropped the socks to the floor with a scowl.

“Angel,” Crowley was appalled at this rule. It bared his feet, and that might increase the pain. He had hoped they would go slowly! “They are clean, I swear!”

“Clean by your standards,” Aziraphale scrunched up his nose. “I still remember when you slithered across the ground, Crowley.”

“The ground is fine, angel,” Crowley muttered.

“Exactly my point,” Aziraphale concluded and pressed his thumbs into Crowley’s soles.

Crowley had a retort to that. Really, he had. But the air rushed his lungs in a sharp inhale and he had to remind himself again what followed that.

 _Exhale, exhale, exhale_! He did, slowly and with control. This was getting easier by the try. The pain lingered though, even as Aziraphale’s fingers moved up to find another spot to torture.

“Now, dear,” Aziraphale spoke. Of course he did. He wanted to make conversation while Crowley was struggling not to pull his legs back to safety as he moaned in pleasure at the same time. “What is it about this that intrigues you so?”

“Mnnhh … it’s unique,” Crowley admitted, head thrown back, glasses sliding up his face. “Can’t feel it otherwise.”

“What? Pain?”

“Uhhh … ooh … I … mnnhh ... guess?”

Aziraphale released the pressure on the muscle, slid his hand over the back of Crowley’s foot, brushing at the little hairs there.

Crowley slouched deeper into the sofa, taking his glasses off. “Yeah, tried it at home, yesterday, and this morning. Doesn’t work.”

“Hmm …” Aziraphale hummed, “so that’s how you broke your hand.”

“Look, I admit it wasn’t my most genius idea, but -”

“No, no, dear. I understand.”

The pressure increased as Aziraphale fingertips outlined the fine bones under the skin. It didn’t hurt, but it still put Crowley’s mind on an edge, expecting it to. The jitters took a number and were sitting back to let the more urgent stuff through.

“I find it fascinating as well,” Aziraphale said, moving up to Crowley’s ankle.

“The pain?”

“No, the way you respond to it. And the way I respond to applying it to you.”

Crowley almost purred at the touch. “How’s that?”

The angel searched for words for a couple of seconds. For the first time that day, Crowley was in no hurry. “It’s akin to an itch I didn’t know I wanted or could to scratch.”

“Right,” Crowley nodded, kept looking at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s gaze was set on his own hands. Following them as they slid to Crowley’s knobby toes, black toenails clean, except for an occasional speck of fabric that rubbed off his socks. As much as the angel whined about his dirty footwear, he had no issue with touching the black dust clumps to remove them from between the demon’s toes with utmost care.

It made Crowley arch his eyebrows.

Then Aziraphale took hold of his big toe and pulled, causing the joint to pop.

“Ouch?” Crowley said more at the sound than anything else.

“Well,” Aziraphale chuckled, “we’re exploring, aren’t we?” He took the next toe and popped that one as well.

“Feels funny,” said Crowley, “not bad. But also not like I’m used to.”

Aziraphale shrugged and set working out all the toes, watching as Crowley wriggled each one separately after their care. Then he slid his fingers gently, gently over the bottom of the demon’s feet, repositioned the heels on his lap. He circled the round bone.

Crowley closed his eyes, relaxing. It wasn’t pain, but it felt somehow more than just a touch. A static build-up between their skins, a pleasant buzz of an electric fence when no one touches it.

He kept still when Aziraphale left hand slipped over his Achilles tendon. Silly name that, everyone with feet had the said tendon. Achiles’ was no different than any other mortal’s.

He didn’t twitch even as fingers slid up to his calf. Hairs there standing up.

Then those fingers squeezed as if his calf muscle was a balloon that was to be pinched into bursting.

He jumped, screaming! Hands grasping for the cushions below as he surged back to get away from the pain. He forced himself forward to prevent it from growing worse as the hold would undoubtedly tear the muscle from the bone.

Pain, pain, _pain_. Even as he felt the press release there was pain. An echo so strong it was the same as the thing itself. The muscle was spasming. And not just the calf muscle, but the thigh, the buttcheek …

“You blessed scabby wallo-” he started but realized midway that no voice left him. Instead, his lungs went into a shutdown, set up a sign to come back later, and took a holiday.

“Breathe,” Aziraphale reminded him, hand layed back on the calf, brushing circles. “You seem to be a bit tense at other places besides the feet.”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply three times. Closed them. He shook with the absurdity of it all. That the angel dared! The betrayal! How could he just sit there while Crowley’s whole limb was currently having a self-therapeutic session that this will not happen again and it should calm down?

Aziraphale’s gaze lingered only on Crowley, who stared back wide-eyed, mouth opened, air invading now, lungs working double-time to make up for the pause.

He could see the question in those angel eyes. Blue like the sky. _Crowley, are you_ _alr_ _-_ He didn’t linger.

“Do it again,” he almost demanded, throat rough.

Aziraphale did.

Crowley cursed, this time controlling his voice better. His fists squeezed tight as he twisted sideways on the couch, half-sliding off it. Aziraphale didn’t let go of his leg. Obediently squeezing, releasing, squeezing a couple of inches higher. Working the whole muscle up and down, no matter how much Crowley writhed or half-sobbed with pain.

His head swam in a pool of something cold but soft. Thoughts scattering every which way like scared ducks. He was free of them for a moment. Then one came back until pain chased it further away. Then the other. A tag-team of push and pull. The muscle starting to get used to it, the feel blunter. And in search of that emptiness Crowley slammed a fist down against something hard. The floor? Was he on the floor?

The pain eased off. Even the buzz dissipated as Aziraphale let him go.

Then his full thigh was there, next to Crowley’s face as he obviously sat down next to him to comfort. And Crowley half-sobbed into those freshly-pressed pants.

“Shush, shush,” a gentle voice prompted him. One hand on his fist to prevent him from hitting anything else, the other in his hair, gently scratching the scalp. “I’m here. It’s okay. I stopped, see! I stopped!”

Crowley whined, face still pressed into that warm thigh. “I didn’t ask you to stop,” he said, voice muffled.

“Yes, but you looked like you needed a break,” Aziraphale said, reluctantly releasing Crowley’s fist to lean back and give him some space. Somehow forgetting about the hand on Crowley’s scalp.

Crowley chased the thigh as it went to move away, reaching around it and hugging it to himself, preventing Aziraphale from leaving.

“Are you alright, dear?”

“‘M fine,” Crowley told the angel’s leg, “‘need a minute.”

“You know, next time you should just tell me to stop. I will.”

Crowley shifted just enough to speak into something less solid. “Didn’t want you to.”

“Well, I didn’t want to stop either, Crowley,” Aziraphale spoke, sounding firm. “But the point of this exercise is that we explore things slow enough that it’s still safe. You don’t want me to accidentally smite you, do you?”

Crowley mumbled something.

“What?”

“... no.”

“Then we need to work together on this.”

It was reasonable enough. Fair. Crowley didn’t like that he had to take his own part of the responsibility, but he saw Aziraphale’s point. They were as close as one could get with a hereditary enemy, neither could continue living with themselves if they hurt one another beyond repair. He certainly couldn’t. What would he even do?

“Do we need a safeword?” Crowley half-joked to break the tension. He was feeling better now. He really was.

“I think communication in all regards is key, dear. I don’t want to ignore other signals and just focus on something as simple as a word.”

That was a first. The angel loved words. He loved reading them, speaking them, writing them, sometimes even listening to them. But neither of them was experienced enough in this to make that work. A word was a trained reflex and they weren’t trained. And if they just started their endeavors - if hopefully, they would continue - they might as well learn from the start.

Besides, even if there was a word, Crowley wouldn’t say it. He was just too stubborn.

They stayed there for a while, Aziraphale removing his hand from Crowley despite his whine of protest. He let Aziraphale take a moment for himself as well.

“You okay, angel?” he asked after he got bored enough in the silence. His thoughts started trickling back, drowsy after their run.

“I think so,” was a slow coming answer. “But there’s definitely a kind of pull within me I never experienced. Was never told I was going to experience.”

Crowley snorted at that. Of course they didn’t tell him, the bastards, that hurting demons is quite pleasurable. No, they wouldn’t do that, the entitled fuckers.

Like they didn’t tell Crowley what pain actually feels like.

But how many demons survived to tell the tale? And would they even admit it?

He let the hostage leg go and turned on his back to stare at the old ceiling.

“I’m parched,” he admitted after a while and sat up, reaching for the cup on the table.

“Hey, that’s my tea!”

“It’s cold, angel,” Crowley told him, downing it in one gulp. “Barely qualifies as a tea.” He studied the bottom of the cup for any missed drops.

“Well, I-”

Crowley got up and headed to the kitchen without a word. He really was thirsty.

He was drinking directly from the tap when Aziraphale showed up at the doorway, his left hand deftly busy with the ring on his right pinky.

“Crowley,” he sighed, searching for courage, “I have decided.”

Crowley detached himself from the well and wiped his face into a nearby cloth. “Pray tell, what has the mighty Guardian of the Eastern Gate judged?”

“I will do some reading on this,” Aziraphale swallowed, “figure out how humans do it. Perhaps I come across some ideas.”

“We’re not human, angel.”

“But we can still get physically hurt,” Aziraphale insisted. “I - I just want to do this right.”

“You’re going to dwell into … sadomasochism literature? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I will widen my search to more than that. BDSM literature is becoming quite common. And there are websites. I’ve heard that can help.”

“You want to try Bondage?” Crowley leaned back. Not knowing what to think. He never found ropes to be anything but a nuisance. Wasn’t that good at knots - preferred Alexander’s the Great approach to them.

“Bondage, Discipline and Sadomasochism. We’ve basically just touched the last two, and there might be more to it. Discipline _does_ sound like something that might help with our … problem of stopping.”

“I admit, not being smitten is how I prefer to be,” Crowley nodded. He noticed how Aziraphale was determined to keep them on equal grounds, not even considering the other meanings to the abbreviation.

“It’s settled then. I’ll check what I can find. You should as well. You might find some ideas that are safe for us to try.”

“Ideas are great. Great idea-guy, me. I did start it all, after all.”

“Let’s not get into who started what, dear.”

A silent minute passed. Then out of nowhere, Aziraphale perked up.

“On that thought, we should start that bottle of Merlot I found in the back room this morning.”

“You have Merlot?” Crowley asked, intrigued.


	3. The Tryout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot brain today, so my beta, [Kittyknowsthings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittyknowsthings/pseuds/Kittyknowsthings), did it for me.

_To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it!_

_\- Charlie Chaplin_

* * *

Aziraphale refused to touch him for the next few days. Crowley gathered that from the angel making excuses that didn’t allow them to be alone for a prolonged amount of time. They went for lunch, then Aziraphale murmured something about “taxes” as if he did such a thing, and Crowley obediently let him out and drove back to his own flat.

He knew it wasn’t him. Aziraphale always needed time. Time to weigh the pros and the cons, to think about the theoretical possibilities of it going all wrong. In six millennia, Crowley had accepted that. And currently, no Apocalypse loomed ahead for them to need to hurry.

But he _did_ feel the need to hurry. Because the silence in his brain that he experienced only twice so far, was more addictive than heroin. And his thoughts were turning darker by the days that passed.

At first, it was just like Aziraphale said - an itch that he was now aware that he could scratch. If only the angel would get on with it. He resorted to pinching the calf muscle just like it was done to him, but there was no buzz, no hurt, just an awareness of it.

What followed was zoning out, as his mind replayed the sensations he now missed like he missed good black Turkish coffee. Hard to come by it nowadays, the pristine bitterness and strength that would kick socks off a lesser person. Socks … that reminded him of the way Aziraphale pulled them off in one swift, smooth motion as if he does it every day. Did he do it every day? Did Aziraphale change clothes between his nightly reading and daily activities in the shop? That sounded silly, but the angel was sentimental. The way he kept that coat pristine. How would he react if Crowley accidentally wrinkled it? And the wrinkle that was so prominent between the angel’s eyebrows when he was worried or trying to work something out … quite noticeable in the last week. Was Crowley making him uncomfortable? He didn’t want that. He wanted Aziraphale to be fine with what they’ve been trying to do. Sure, Crowley’s selfishness sometimes caused Aziraphale some problems, like when he tried to pressure Aziraphale into escaping to Alpha Centauri with him, but Aziraphale refused back then, surely he would refuse if something made him uncomfortable now, right?

Crowley realized he’d been staring at the blank wall for half a day, and it was time to sleep if he was going to have any.

He lay in bed, sleepless. Thinking about the time he was whipped for his insolence towards the high lord of some city or the other, shaking it off after, changing into a snake and slithering away amongst the screaming crowd. Would Aziraphale whip him if he asked? What would it feel like? Would he touch and press into the muscles of his back? Would it feel like it had with his calf?

He went through his mental checklist of muscles to test with Aziraphale - back, shoulder, arm, hands, neck, maybe chest, and buttocks. He got up to get his phone and then googled the anatomy of a human to use it as a catalog.

Then there were a whole bunch of tools to consider. The whip. The cane, Crowley heard referenced a few times, was a tool they beat slaves with. A blade. What would it be like to be bled by Aziraphale? Would it leave scars? He could heal them sure, but the fact that he would feel it proper still sounded fascinating.

The night passed, and Crowley felt too shivery to sleep. He sat on his bed, then moved to his living room to watch some of his favorite shows just to waste time.

Seven days have passed in this manner, Aziraphale refusing to even reach across the table to meet Crowley’s hand halfway. Moving his feet back as Crowley sprawled even more than usual, trying to bump their legs under it. Their conversation flowed normally, however, so Crowley wasn’t too worried about the angel having any second thoughts in their relationship so far.

In a stupor of madness as Crowley shaved one morning - refusing to break Aziraphale’s rule of no magic to give the bastard any pleasure in reprimanding him verbally - he regarded the sharp edge with interest. After he was done, he disassembled it and turned it this way and that to see the light bouncing off the steel.

He picked a spot with care, going through the motions in a daze. The first time the blade barely scraped the skin, leaving behind only a white line. Then he put his back into it and opened his forearm proper, nicking the vein there.

The blood welled up, too fast, too much. He knew that as he stared at it, unmoved by it. As if someone else was bleeding and not himself. He knew he was losing his own life essence and that it might cause problems for his vessel if he was going to blankly stare at it for a prolonged time. He went to snap his fingers, stopped himself. He just shaved, for crying out loud.

With a growl, he got up and found a bandage in a first-aid-kit he kept unopened since the Second World War. He wrapped it around his forearm, holding pressure, the work familiar from a few decades back.

Aziraphale was bound to see it at their lunch that day. It wasn’t even a question. Either because there was bunched fabric under Crowley’s jacket where there wasn’t before, or because Crowley kept pressing on it - at first unconsciously, and then very much on purpose.

He saw the blue eyes darting to the spot, the worry line forming above the nose-bridge. They haven’t paused in their banter about the Ottoman Empire, but Aziraphale looked very much more fired up now, his gaze skipping between clothed forearm and Crowley’s eyes behind the glasses, his growing anger evident.

“The Queen Mother did have the last word in the matter!” Aziraphale finished quite urgently, patting the napkin around his mouth as if there was any dessert left to remove.

“I don’t disagree, but -”

“Crowley, did you hurt yourself again?”

“Uhh …” Sure Crowley was glad that his attention-seeking ways worked, but he honestly had no plan for after that. “It’s nothing, angel … just a scrape during shaving.”

“On your forearm?” The stare aimed his way made him look down like a scolded child.

“Well, I-I-” He took a breath. “Honestly, angel, I realized that excuse was stupid as soon as I said it.”

Aziraphale was already waving for a check, providing notes of too high value to be pristinely acquired. They both had their stash of money, but it spoke volumes that they didn’t just magick the bill paid now.

“When will we dump this low-magick charade, angel?” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale’s face went soft. “Give it one more month, my dear,” he told him. “If neither of us gets any visitors till then, I suppose we can up the miracles.”

Crowley nodded, downed his espresso in one gulp, and got up, ready to head to his Bentley.

“Sit, dear, please,” Aziraphale said, still comfortable in his chair.

“I thought we were leaving?”

“Sit, Crowley!” Stone cold. Deep. Sharp. Yet barely voiced.

Crowley sat.

“Now,” Aziraphale spoke as if Crowley wasn’t just going through a mental panic attack, searching through all the information about Aziraphale he had, trying to figure out where the tone had come from.

“ _Come up with something!_ ”No, not even then. Aziraphale was afraid then. This wasn’t fear.

“Now,” Aziraphale repeated. “If we are to have this … this New Arrangement … you have to promise me there’ll be none of that,” he waved towards Crowley’s arm.

Crowley swallowed, glad that the sunglasses hid his eyes. Not just from the normal people around them, but for the first time from Aziraphale himself. His proverbial dictionary on Aziraphale came up with nothing. This was new.

He liked this new.

“Angel, it’s - it’s - it’s really nothing,” he defended. “Just wanted to see for myself.”

“I thought it didn’t work if it wasn’t an angel.”

Crowley hurried to nod. “It doesn’t. Still had to check. To be sure.”

Aziraphale thought for a moment, eyes on the table as his head did the mental calculations. “Alright. Here’s what I propose …”

Crowley’s ears perked up at that and he hurried to nod even before Aziraphale finished saying anything. Because he needed Aziraphale to know he’d agree to anything that would make the angel comfortable. This was Crowley’s personal mess, and no one should feel pressured to be doing anything about it that they didn’t want to. ‘Specially not Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s attention was on the rustic table between them, so he didn’t notice, or refused to notice Crowley’s head-bobs. “You drive me back to my bookshop, please. And I can try giving you a shoulder rub, if you agree.”

“Whatever you like, angel,” Crowley breathed. “I can tell the server to get us a bottle to go if you wish. My treat.”

“No, thank you, dear.” Aziraphale smiled now, his gaze all warmth and gentleness. “I think we should stay sober for this.”

“Sure. Sure.” Crowley was on his feet again as soon as Aziraphale started getting out of his own chair.

* * *

The drive to the bookshop was pretty uneventful. If you could call the tension Crowley felt in his muscles, especially in his shoulders, uneventful. It was as if that part of his body somehow _knew_ , got ready to be mistreated, demanded attention as soon as possible.

His head meanwhile was going berserk. There, the what-ifs were crying for attention, protesting, swarming before they were forced to leave.

When they swerved onto Aziraphale’s street, Crowley was in figurative knots, barely keeping the thoughts to himself.

 _Give me five minutes. I will fuck this situation up. It_ ’ _s what I do._

Aziraphale next to him sighed, gathering his own nerves. As always stronger of the two in his conviction to something. “Well,” he said when they sat in the parked car for almost a whole minute, “let’s get a wiggle on.” And he opened the door and stepped out, leaving Crowley to gather his emotional baggage and follow him in his own time.

Being in the bookshop was no different than any other time. Aziraphale made tea, shuffling around between the shelves, while Crowley got himself comfortable on the sofa.

Sure, there was still the internal struggle, but his muscles relaxed before the tea was on the table, next to a large, antiquely designed jar of clear water and a simple glass. The angel sat across from him, sipping and grumbling appreciatively at the taste.

“Drink your tea, dear,” he motioned to Crowley. “It should calm you down a bit.”

“Calm me down?” Crowley asked. “I’m calm,” he said not at all calm.

Aziraphale only looked at him until he reached for his own teacup.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever, angel.” But it wasn’t ‘whatever’. He knew the vibes he gave off were in no way ‘whatever’. He almost down the tea in one gulp, scalding his own tongue and throat, not even twitching.

“So, before we start,” Aziraphale said in a firm tone. “I want you to consider why you want to feel such discomfort that I can offer you.”

“Why I want to- I don’t know angel, it’s just -”

“No, no, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley who sat there with the empty cup in his hand. Perhaps he was shaking. Perhaps there was an earthquake. Anybody’s guess really. “I want you to consider how you feel at this moment, and what you’re looking to achieve with our endeavor. You do not have to tell me now.”

“Oh … Okay, sure.” He felt tense, on edge, overrun. He wished to get to the point of not feeling so. And he knew he could.

“Then, after we’re done, I want you to contemplate how it really _made_ you feel. And tell me if you wish, or if you think it would be relevant for me to know.”

“Simple enough,” Crowley nodded. “Do I need to take the jacket off?” he asked, only just noticing he did not do so beforehand.

The angel chuckled, getting up to move closer. He took the cup still in Crowley’s possession and placed it on the matching cup on the small table. “Turn please,” he prompted and sat on the empty side of the sofa. A bit of nudging forced Crowley into a position where he was forced to face away. A tug on the collar of his jacket told that yes, he should take it off.

Aziraphale made the act somehow slower than it would have been if Crowley would just scramble to do it. There was no touch between them, no direct contact, Aziraphale simply maneuvering the clothing off Crowley’s shoulders and pulling to help free the arms. Then he carefully lay the garment over a pile of books on the ground next to the seat.

“Comfortable?”

Crowley’s whole body shook in response. The voice was closer than the usual foot of empty space, and he couldn’t see Aziraphale. It was also somehow quieter, more of a point of the sword instead of the usual broad surface. He nodded. A couple of times to make sure it was visible.

Only stopped when he felt the sofa move as Aziraphale made himself more comfortable.

A weight set on both of his shoulders simultaneously, and he took in a breath. Held it.

The hands on him stilled, waited. Waited.

“Angel, what-”

Then those fingers gripped him.

Aziraphale had large hands. Not long-fingered, spider-like big. But stone-statue big. Solid. Full. And his grip, it seemed, was the same. Grounding.

Crowley groaned out the last of his question, not sure what words were anymore. The muscles between his shoulders and neck popped under the onslaught. Jumping as it was pressed from one position into the other and back, grinding.

“Mmmm …”

Two thumbs pressed into the points right next to his shoulder blades. Pushed in. Circled, punishing the hidden muscle there.

“Fuck, yes.”

His shoulders tensed. The hold there wrestling the muscles back down, while the thumbs insisted on their own path. He only noticed he was leaning forward when the grip on him forcefully pulled him back into position. The sudden knowledge he was being handled so easily made him snap his eyes open. Not that he saw anything but white and black spots.

After a while, the statue-strong-hands moved to his shoulders, down to his biceps, squeezing there. Crowley squawked at the feel of being dragged backward, even though he wasn’t. The position gave Aziraphale a lot of control. If he could pop his arms right out of his shoulder joint.

The hands quickly returned back up in unison. Thumbs back next to his spine, lower now. Circling with gusto, pressing deeper. God, was he searching out his ribs? He was, wasn’t he? Tracing between the bones, and back, smoothing the muscles that covered it up.

He was shaking again. The blank, blank mind zeroing in on something unidentifiable. A silhouette of a thing, barely tangible.

It disappeared as Aziraphale lost his grip on him, fingers clutching the shirt instead of Crowley. He repositioned himself back on the shoulders, searching out the already traced path. Slid off again when the last digits fell off their purchase.

The mind rushed back in small waves. How can he demand this of Aziraphale? He should handle his own shit! He’s a demon, for someone’s sake! _Get a grip!_ And now he was pulling Aziraphale under! The damn innocent fool.

“Angel,” Crowley complained at a loss.

Aziraphale grumbled, gripped Crowley’s biceps again for a better purchase. “Is there a problem, Crowley?” he asked, sounding a bit distant himself.

Crowley chuckled and wriggled his arms, letting Aziraphale’s hand fall to the crook of his elbows. “I think my problem is,” he slurred, “that I have a really fantastic bad idea.”

At this he let the angel’s hands drop further down his arms, to his forearms and wrists, where he turned his own hands in the way that Aziraphale’s fingertips couldn’t help but drag across the cuff buttons of his shirt.

He heard a hitch of breath behind him. A following exhale almost a groan, but not quite. A weight on him then. Aziraphale’s curls tickling the exposed back of his neck as the angel leaned his head against his back, taking a moment.

Crowley thought of begging. Stopped himself. If he begged Aziraphale would probably do it. This was something the angel had to come to terms with himself.

Seconds passed. Perhaps many minutes. Crowley had no idea. They both breathed, suspended, and even as his mind started rearing in that way that pretold an onslaught of returning self-accusations and stupid wants, Crowley kept his shaking to a minimum.

Aziraphale just breathed, the pitch to it changing - shallow, deep, shallow again. Still with the top of his head against Crowley’s back. Fingers on those little buttons.

Then with one great deep breath and an audible exhale, the fingers moved and parted the fabric.


	4. The Universe At His Fingertips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to admit, this was a bit harder to write (Aziraphale's POV). It took me a few days to get into the zone.  
> But your comments and kudos' drove me forward and gave me the motivation to return to it. So thank you all.  
> Extra thanks to [ elizabethelizabeth ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth)for the extra quick beta!

_Through Love all that is bitter will be sweet,_   
_Through Love all that is copper will be gold,_   
_Through Love all dregs will become wine,_   
_Through Love all pain will turn to medicine._   
_\- Rumi_

* * *

Aziraphale had to admit this was growing to be a problem faster than he was able to keep it under control. He dropped into an unknown situation, unable to stop, to step back and consider as he was wont to do.

He’d done extensive reading on this, not just in the last week but throughout history as the human race discovered the subtle under-levels of pleasure. He even experienced some of them, finding himself exhilarated by the new exercise; there was almost an art to it.

But with Crowley, it was nothing akin to a walk in the park as it was with people. Nothing as relaxing and mind-expanding. No, he was barreling down the slope with very little chance of stopping. Sandalphon often bragged, Uriel mentioned offhandedly, Gabriel noted it down like a ticked-out to-do list, and Michael was silent on the matter. No matter the angel, they clearly understated the heightened pleasure one could experience torturing a fallen. Like with many things it was layered, but in such a way one couldn’t distinguish between the complicated interconnections. He was not a man, he was not an angel; at this moment he wasn’t even an ethereal … he was pure essence that demanded release.

With a demon under the mercy of his fingers, his strength, his will, Aziraphale’s fogged mind provided him with two options - the angel way or the human way.

The constant beat in his head of _Crowley! Crowley! Crowley!_ branded his thoughts enough to know where he was and who he was with. The angel way ended up with obliterated Crowley, so this was obviously out of the question.

He pulled himself together and accepted his own physical form - even though his skin was too tight, his wings begged to be released in the form of miracles, his bones rattled, and his eyes closed only to see so much more.

 _This is my being, this is what She made me, and this is what I_ _chose to remain_ _!_ Crown of his head against Crowley’s back - a solid pillar that connected him to the Earth below. A smell of his own books, stale and wooden, stories that lingered in the air. Their story. The two adversaries that helped stop the Apocalypse. Nothing whatsoever in common, except for that alliance that grew and grew throughout the ages into something more. That mutual fascination in experiencing humanity, like a silk string that grew into something stronger than iron.

“ _I don_ ’ _t even like you!_ ”his traitor instinct provided the memory against the demon.

“ _You DOOOO!_ ” the demon in his mind replied.

The human way it was. _She gave us a choice. I have chosen._ As soon as he had decided, made that ultimate turn on the path, his body woke up. And with it, his effort. He took a breath in, tried to will it down. Remembered the moans, under-breath expletives, the fact that the very Snake of Eden didn’t know either to lean away or push into his touches. It only made the issue more prominent.

And he was offering himself to Aziraphale, like a gift ready for unwrapping.

Aziraphale wasn’t inexperienced in sexual ways. But he never had to go through his own angelic identity, call upon Her to give him the strength not to be an angel, only to find himself lusting for something sexual and _still_ having to stop himself from tasting it.

Crowley was offering him better access to his skin, his muscles, his body. But only to cause that good kind of hurt. He wasn’t offering anything else. He loved Aziraphale, that much the angel could feel. That much was obvious. That made it easier to wave goodbye to his more primal instincts. Love radiated from Crowley like warmth from the fire. But that was it. There was no lust to feel. Aziraphale was never attuned to it, even if there was.

And if Crowley could feel lust, the demon that he was, he wasn’t mentioning it. Wasn’t broaching the subject. Giving Aziraphale a chance to ignore it as well … if he only could.

The buttons were such a precious thing, tearable, breakable, but Crowley was the one who demanded such attention, so Aziraphale was careful with parting the fabric. Used the delicate touch he reserved for his own clothes and books.

He could feel Crowley exhale as if he was holding his breath. Which he probably was.

If they were going to do this, Aziraphale had to be more alert to Crowley’s needs. He was supposed to be the one leading, knowing when to stop even when the other one didn’t. Crowley always was the impulsive one, driving headlong into a fire. Aziraphale was the careful one.

But as soon as he touched those wrists, those bones under the skin, he had to remind himself that his heart should be beating slower, lungs working deeper. _God, he is like the most fragile of tea-cups. Like a finger-food that is about to fall apart if I don_ ’ _t handle it correctly._

“Angel?”

It was the deep tone that brought Aziraphale back to here and now. The tiny pitch of the question. Like the demon was worried that he was somehow hurting _him_.

Aziraphale forced himself to grunt in response, straighten himself. Fingers dragging over the other’s wrists, up to the forearms, biceps, collarbone.

A whine escaped Crowley. Like he was an instrument, tuned so finely, being played with each drag of fingers down his torso, stopping to unbutton each catch on the way. A bit more hurried than was appropriate, the need making his hands shake, his thoughts somersault.

As soon as he reached the hem, he touched the skin of Crowley’s lower abdomen. The wiery hair, the treasure trail ending at his belly-button. Such a painfully human spot that Aziraphale still sometimes just stared in amazement at his own. This one was different, the wrinkle of the skin pushing out of the hole by the feel of it. Still, Aziraphale traced higher, over Crowley’s chest, grabbing the fabric and pulling to help Crowley disrobe.

It was a hurried act on Crowley’s end. Pulling his arms out, his wound dressing getting caught. But then he was free, and visibly shaking. Aziraphale discarded the shirt on top of Crowley’s jacket. Returned his attention to the freckled shoulders, swallowing at the constellations of dots. He almost cried at the sight.

_They took the one thing you ever wanted to be a part of. Made it into something you could never have. Marked you instead, so you could remember? A part of torture or as a gift?_

He wanted to kiss the stars, taste them. Instead, he lay his hands on them. Like Crowley wanted.

Aziraphale worked the muscles of Crowley’s shoulder. Could feel the difference between the bone and the flesh more prominently now. The skin warm to the touch, accepting and not at all slipping away like the fabric of the shirt. He grabbed and he knit and when Crowley sighed and grunted and whined, he pressed harder into the points.

“There!” Crowley breathed urgently when Aziraphale’s thumb brushed across a bow-strung knot.

Aziraphale’s thumb was punishing. Mashing the lump into submission and then further. Seeing the surrounding skin turn red as the white center started bruising. His other hand fell down on Crowley’s forearm, rubbed the dressing, unwrapped it.

The wound was already closed, an angry red line besmirching _his_ demon. He had half a mind to heal it, but he was sure Crowley would notice. And if they were still keeping an eye on them, so would the angels. Healing a demon of his self-caused wound was the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing. It would bring attention. He huffed, forced his eyes to look away. Back to the bruises his other hand was causing. Could he heal those? Did he want to?

“‘Ziraphale …” Crowley breathed, the unpunished shoulder twitching in half-a-shrug.

Aziraphale brought his other hand up, finding a knot that matched the previous one on the other side. Went to work. “Just admiring the universe on your back, dear.”

“Liar,” Crowley half-chuckled.

It shook Aziraphale to his very core, his loins getting tighter. He wanted. Oh, how much he wanted.

He pressed into the knot. Slid his other hand to Crowley’s bicep. God, but he was exquisite. He could wrap his fingers right around him there. He did. Pulled, as his thumb pushed deeper.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Crowley ranted under his breath. The humor in his voice was gone. Back twisting under Aziraphale’s onslaught. He had half a mind to chide him for the cursing but thought better of opening his mouth.

His hand slipped lower, hand cradling the demon’s lower ribs, thumb working on the muscles next to the spine. The knobs jutting out, making Aziraphale think of starvation, but this snake didn’t want for food.

Crowley leaned back into the touch. Sighing. Hand of the arm Aziraphale still held, searching a purchase, finding it on Aziraphale’s soft thigh. Long fingers gripped and squeezed. Aziraphale pressed deeper, could feel the side of the vertebra, the drag of skin over the bone.

The most obscene moan the angel has ever heard escaped from the depth of Crowley’s throat.

Aziraphale couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand still. He released Crowley’s bicep, sneaking his arm below the arm and around Crowley’s stomach, pulling him closer between his thighs. Embracing him whole, wrapping both arms around Crowley’s front. His left sneaking up to Crowley’s collarbone. Pressing on the soft flesh above it.

A gasp escaped a demon - small, needy, full of promise.

Fingers splayed out, thumb and index each pressing on the soft spots above the bone, behind it, enwrapping the center of the throat while also avoiding putting the pressure there. The hand on his thigh squeezed again, the other flying to Aziraphale’s wrist, keeping it in place.

His other arm trapped Crowley’s middle close to him. Perhaps betraying his arousal, but the guttural gurgle escaping the demon erased the worry clear out of Aziraphale’s mind.

“‘Zira …” the demon begged, breathless.

A smell of brimstone, human sweat, and something much more potent wafted up, straight into the angel’s nose as he hovered above the spot where Crowley’s shoulder met the neck. The white spots that danced in front of Aziraphale’s eyes shut down as if someone pulled the plug on them. There was only thick, thick dark hunger.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to warn Crowley of the incoming … something. Something he couldn’t keep a leash on. But as soon as his lips and teeth parted, the smell entered there as well, filling his mouth like the most delicious brand of wine, tastebuds exploding in anticipation.

Unable to stop, he bit down on the demon’s flesh and brought the tongue to the smooth, smooth skin. At that moment, he knew the slope was way behind him, and he had smashed himself against the most primal of human experiences. And he was never in millennia to come going to look back, wanting to return to what was before.


	5. In Writing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> I don't even know how I got busy the last few weeks, but time just flew by. There are some great fanfics on this site that make my writing look like nothing, so yeah ... I guess the combination of both just made me slow down.  
> Some comments roused me from my sleep though, and I wrote another chapter. Thank you for your support!
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [ slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/works) for the beta!  
> Fast and efficient ... an author that took weeks to write this ... and then a beta who took an hour to fix it. I sometimes wonder who's more qualified to write this story (don't answer that!)

_Most people want to avoid pain, and discipline is usually painful._   
_\- John C. Maxwell_

* * *

Crowley was stuck in the void. Silent and absent of himself. But unlike his fall - as far as he could remember of it - he didn’t have that sense of a nightmare dread that urged a person to wake up. No, he was fine with this void. A light turned off, ridding problems, erasing intent and responsibility. The body was just a concept he could disregard, much like clothes.

He had a faint notion of surfacing for a bit before diving deeper, like a fish. Aziraphale was there, taking care of him. The angel messed up plenty of things in their past, same as Crowley had, but he was still to be trusted with his life – he put himself on the line for Crowley more than once.

Crowley let himself go, and floated. Naught but feelings of suspension and an unidentifiable need keeping him company. The guilt couldn’t reach him because the punishment handed out to him fulfilled even that.

Suddenly the sensation of the endlessness zeroed in on one spot - a sharp burst of pain, not unpleasant, but so much more direct.

His breath caught, the reality slamming back into him in one huge wave. He felt the muscles that had been abused \- his back, above the collar-bone, one of his biceps. He felt the warmth of a soft body holding him. Most of all, he felt the sharp teeth biting down on his shoulder. If he weren’t made of sturdier stuff, it would break his skin. Instead, it just gave him whiplash when he returned from his out-of-body experience.

The sharpness pulled the trapezius taut, popped the blood vessels. His flesh protested, skin growing moist by Aziraphale’s breath. And somehow, totally unconnected, something below Crowley’s navel tightened.

Fuck, he was hard.

He needed to communicate this problem. Perhaps it wasn’t wise, but his prick needed a break from the rush, and the pressure on his neck was turning into an unpleasant tingling.

He grabbed a handful of Aziraphale’s trouser-leg, gulped in air, had to think about it long and hard to manage it. Let it out again in a whine or a moan. He wasn’t even sure at this point.

His freedom was returned immediately. Pushed away from the soft body with unnecessary violence. He caught himself and crawled forward until he was far enough to turn and sit properly. Totally exhausted, his head lolled back on the back of the sofa, fingers catching the blanket he knew was there to half-cover himself, mostly making sure there were enough wrinkles on his lap to hide any indecencies.

He glanced at Aziraphale. The angel looked a mess. Eyes wide in shock, a hand covering that sinful mouth that just tasted demon, carefully pressed trousers wrinkled from Crowley’s grip.

“That was -” Crowley started.

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale insisted from behind his hand.

“Fo’ what?”

Aziraphale blinked, almost tearful. “I bit you!”

Crowley couldn’t help but grin and grunt in satisfaction. “Yes, you did.” He stared at nothing in particular, focus eluding him. “Tha’ felt nice.”

“Nice?!” Aziraphale took a deep breath before pushing his point on. “Barbaric of me is what it was!”

Crowley inspecting the ceiling. “No c’laints ‘ere.”

“I-I-I-I-I … I don’t know what came over me!”

Now wasn’t that a question. Because Crowley knew darn well what came over _him_. He dove down, released from those thoughts that were slowly but surely trickling back, he got hard. Not particularly occult, but he was upside for 6000 years, some habits must have stuck.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was scandalized. By what? A new sensation? No, that wasn’t this particular angel’s style. Crowley glanced down, saw the bulge in those almost-perfectly pressed pants. _Oh._

“It’s called an arousal, angel,” he simply stated, grinning back at the ceiling. Letting his faculties return in a leisurely manner.

“I-” Aziraphale stopped, looked down at himself. Almost glaring. Eyes glancing towards Crowley again, before he straightened up and pulled at his waistcoat primly. “I know what it is! That’s not what I’m talking about!”

Well, Crowley would lie if he said that wasn’t a bit of a surprise. He knew Aziraphale partook in a number of earthly delights, but honestly, he never considered that. Not that it was absurdly shocking, just curious. “So, what’s the problem?” he asked, a bit prissy. They had a good thing going; if Aziraphale’s going to get cold feet now …

The angel smoothed out his clothes, twisted the ring on his pinky, fussing. “I went too far,” he murmured to himself.

Crowley was close enough to hear. “I just _said_ I had no 'plaints!”

Aziraphale regarded him with that _look_. The look that told Crowley he took his opinion and disregarded it in lieu of his own, more proper one.

 _Angels! For Someone’s sake!_ Crowley groaned.

Aziraphale quietly reached behind him, retrieving and handing over Crowley’s shirt. The smell of arousal quickly dispersing from the air. The lack of it curiously prominent now, at the back of Crowley’s demonic tongue. Like a mint that covers up an aftertaste. He had half a mind to ask Aziraphale if he was using up a miracle – the thing he pestered Crowley about for the last few months – for something as stupid as getting rid of an erection. What stopped him was Aziraphale’s outstretched hand reaching across towards him, or more accurately, towards his shoulder and the mark he put there.

Crowley moved away smoothly, grabbing the angel’s thick wrist to prevent any further advances. “No.”

It was a simple statement, yet it made Aziraphale glare before he wrestled his expression into befuddlement. Defiance against a demon being replaced by the curious interest of this new thing he never before came across. “No?” he repeated, sure he misheard.

“No,” Crowley repeated stubbornly. “Look, you can do this holier-than-thou all you want. 'Been through this. I know you better than that.”

Aziraphale’s lips disappeared in a stern line and there was a fire of blue in his eyes.

“I want this,” Crowley continued before the angel could get a word in, “and I think that you do too.” At least, he hoped. “You seemed ‘nterested enough a few minutes ago.”

Aziraphale took his hand back, looked away. “That doesn’t mean it’s right. I could hurt you.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m not that fragile, Aziraphale.”

It was the use of the name that made Aziraphale look back, fond but carefully distant. Eyes flicking to the red imprint on Crowley’s shoulder for a second. “We need to establish some lines.”

“What’ver you need, angel,” Crowley agreed, covering the mark protectively. Cradling it to himself like some precious thing. It was on his body. His now. A part of Aziraphale, a testament to his power over him. It went both ways.

“It’s difficult to ...” the ring on his pinky finger spun around and around, “... stop. To be in control of my own faculties during.” A deep breath, a lunge into the explanation. “The force behind my actions is greater than I anticipated. The pull towards you too strong.”

Crowley sat there, clutching the bite with one hand and his clothes with the other, dumbstruck for almost a minute. Meanwhile, Aziraphale patiently waited for his response. Prim and proper like only an angel could.

“So -” Crowley’s mouth started without him.

“So,” Aziraphale nodded.

“You’re afraid you’re gonna hurt me too much.”

“That’s right.”

“And you want to know where our lines are?”

“I would be most grateful if we could figure it out somehow.”

Crowley thought. The words of “ _pull towards you is too strong_ ” still bouncing in his brain, taking most of the space. It took a while, felt like hours until he coughed to get his voice in order again. “Well, this obviously ain’t a problem.” He uncovered the mark that was already changing color into something darker than his regular tanned skin.

“If you’re really sure,” Aziraphale nodded.

“I am. Look,” Crowley finally sighed, peeling himself from the sofa to put his shirt back on, “you were concerned about my well-being … an hour ago?” Has it only been that long? “Maybe I’m not the only one who should think ‘bout what they want from this.”

It took long enough for Crowley to put his shirt back on and button it, before Aziraphale’s brain finally clicked.

“Oh.” It was a soft kind of breath. A breeze in the summer. A movement in the stuffing heat. “I suppose you’re right.” He turned, staring at the clutter of his bookshop. Considering.

Crowley gave him time. Stood up and went to fetch a glass of water. Giving himself space to think about what he wanted. What his lines were, if any.

He obviously delighted in marks. This was new. Aziraphale influenced him plenty, but he always took it in stride. As a passing matter. The mark on his shoulder was something he wanted to keep. To protect. The line on his forearm meant nothing, but the bite … Each time he tensed the muscle there, a tingle sent his thoughts scattering. Reminded him of the deep pool of black and the feeling of security provided by Aziraphale’s ownership of him.

On that point. The embrace. That warmth like the sun shining down on his scales in the garden. Snuggled tight like fresh skin. Maneuvering him in the best position to suit them both. Definitely a yes.

Then there was the hard-on. Crowley has never been one to search that kind of pleasure in others. He tried, sure, did his job a few times as a seducer. But he knew best what brought him to climax, the following relaxation, and if a person wasn’t included to meet the ends of it, there was no sense in getting hard over them.

That last erection wasn’t willed, wasn’t there to do a job, or to get the tension out. That was a reaction to some other sensation. A press on the muscle causing a finger at the other end to twitch. Crowley didn’t know that his prick was capable of getting hard this way.

Would he be okay with Aziraphale touching it? Stroking it if it came to that? He didn’t see why not. It was just another layer of the experiment. Convincing the angel of that could be a challenge on its own, though.

He returned to the sitting area, a glass of water in his hand. He wanted to offer it to Aziraphale, to maybe brush their fingers in the passing. A test of sorts, to see if they were still alright with touching each other after Aziraphale pushed him away. But the angel was looming over the low table, a notebook open and fountain pen in hand, writing.

Crowley scowled and put a glass on the table within the angel’s reach. Sat down next to him.

“Taxes?” he asked, half-joking.

“It’s not January, dear,” Aziraphale replied distantly.

Fine. So, the angel was in the zone. Crowley got up again, fetching his own jacket, ready to depart as per unspoken rule.

He put on his glasses, checked his phone. 3:43 p.m. He could pop to some antique store, find something to fiddle with. Cause a bit of mischief at the tourist traps. Get home in time to catch reruns of the shows he watched.

It was the steps on the hardwood floor that roused Aziraphale. A hum readying Crowley for an absent-minded goodbye. He lifted his hand to wave it off.

“Where are you going?”

It was a simple-enough inquiry, but it took two more steps for Crowley to process it. The undertone, the clearance of the words. Not a distracted o _h, are you leaving already?_ This was not an absorbed friend. This was a powerful being asking a puny snake how does he dare turn his back on him, covered up by the regular Aziraphale: soft and bright. It might have been Crowley’s high from before playing tricks on him, but his muscles refused to go against the meaning behind those words.

He turned, eyebrows lifting. Aziraphale never kept him around when he was doing his own research into whatever tome he was currently obsessing over.

“Come here and take a seat.”

Crowley did. Pocketing his phone and playing with his jacket, deciding if he should take it off or if Aziraphale only invited him for a final word.

“Here we go.” Aziraphale straightened, moved closer to Crowley as if there were back to being co-conspirators. Did they ever stop? It was different now. Now Crowley’s skin was screaming for it. The tension too fresh. Side of their thighs pressed together just so, as he leaned over to scan the paper on the table.

Aziraphale’s calligraphy belonged in a museum along with most of the other treasures in the bookshop. Developed over the years of copying the most beautifully written tomes. Curvy, sharp, almost over-the-top but not quite there. What is a word for a master who has been perfecting his craft since its conception at the dawn of humanity?

Crowley always had to take in a breath to crawl out of the depths of the lines before he could start decrypting what said lines meant in the context of reading. His focus naturally zeroed in on the movement, sounds … the stillness was like another language to him. But he could translate fast enough, thanks to the simple setting of the agenda in front of him.

A number of words were listed one under the other, two empty columns to the right of them. A symbol of a snake - similar to his own mark - and of a feather at the top.

“I want us to go through the list. See what we want, what we’re not ready to try,” Aziraphale explained.

“'Course you’d want it in bloody writing,” Crowley said sourly. Aziraphale was defining the lines, ever the fussy bastard. Crowley was the one pushing him over them. And he knew damn well that written lines were harder to cross. That’s why their Arrangement has been oral. He never gave Aziraphale enough specifics to pin it down.

“It’s just for my own peace of mind, Crowley,” Aziraphale gently explained. “We can change it as we move along.” Paused, twirling a ring around his finger again. “I want us to communicate more. During.”

Crowley slowly blinked behind his glasses. Remembered the comforting void. He’d have to be close to the surface, to be coherent enough to hear and speak. Sounded like a chore. A part of him protested.

Maybe he did fall too deep too fast.

“Crowley?”

He sighed. “‘Kay, angel. I can try.” And he leaned further to read the first word.

_Skin-surface pain (taking, providing)_

“Well, first one is quite obvious,” he chuckled. “Am all for it.”

Aziraphale made a check-mark at them both. Brought a pen to the empty space on the right. “So, we’re fine with _feet, calves, back, shoulders, chest._ ”

“Fine with anywhere, angel,” Crowley muttered.

He could feel the judgemental side-glance on him. “It won’t do to speculate.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Anywhere you’d like to try next time?”

It was stupid, really, the phrase _next time_ made his heart beat faster. A stupid muscle in the stupid body, reacting stupidly. His brain went into overdrive, for once not about the guilt or the worry, but with ideas. He stuttered, trying to get all of them out at once. “Th-th-thighs! Hipsand _buttocks_! Neck - _coulddoneck_! Can you tiemyarmsbehindmyback?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, trying to catch anything in the tsunami of words.

Crowley almost jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his knee, gently squeezing to bring him back to the coherent world.

It was easier to repeat the second time. He’s been able to calm down watching Aziraphale’s hand dance over the paper with each word he mouthed, the other left forgotten on his knee.

They went on down the list. _Bruises. Scratches. Hits. Cuts._ Aziraphale fetched a tome on ancient torture devices, and they went through those, debating more than writing. Remembering with the exhilaration and distaste of those seeing them used in person, the stories never told. Finally, they wrote down _Ropes_ , agreeing on the fascination by the close-and-personal intricacy that could work on both, while most self-standing apparatuses would not. There had to be a reason it was still in style.

Crowley had no idea when his hand ended up on the hand Aziraphale was using to cradle his knee with the utmost care, drawing circles with his left while writing with his right. But it felt good there. Aziraphale was so warm.

They were deep in a debate about Crowley’s demonic dive and its comparison to Aziraphale’s angelic high when Aziraphale went quiet and turned to the list again, pen hovering over a blank space.

So far, all their marks have been check-marks on both ends, or at least a question mark for the things they weren’t sure about. How Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he’d be alright with inflicting hits and cuts upon his friend, or how Crowley had no clue about sensory deprivation.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and wrote down a word without saying it. Forcing Crowley to go through his own process of reading it. Line, crossing a line, curving that way in that sequence.

_Fornication_

Crowley read it three times, holding his breath, making sure he didn’t misread. Aziraphale moved then, making a check-mark in the feather column.

Crowley looked up, suddenly pinned by those sharp sky-blues. He swallowed, trying to read the intention behind that face.

He seemed to be quiet for too long. Aziraphale took his hand away from beneath Crowley’s. It felt like taking comfort for the sake of himself. Fingers played a tune on his own knees, considering each word before mouthing it. “I just thought, if it came to that … I wouldn’t be averse to touching or being touched …” He paused, fingers squeezing into white-knuckled fists. “Only if you’d be comfortable with it, of course.”

Crowley’s brain did that thing again. The thing where he felt he was just a passenger in a ship that went a thousand miles per hour, leaving him only to experience, unable to act.

He pinched his own thigh to get a grip, and reached across to Aziraphale’s hands, prompting them to unfold.

Aziraphale did, nervous, but not shaking like Crowley who almost dropped the pen that Aziraphale’s mighty fingers released for him.

He turned to the table, still voiceless, and scribbled down his answer in the snake column: a broken line and a drop of ink marring Aziraphale’s perfect hand-writing.


	6. The Lines of Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely [ slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/works) for the extra-quick beta!
> 
> Encouraging comments welcome like always. It reminds me I have a project.

_Wrap me in a bolt of lightning_   
_Send me on my way still smiling_   
_Maybe that's the way I should go_   
_Straight into the mouth of the unknown  
\- Shinedown, Call me _

* * *

Not a week later, Aziraphale found himself filing his nails into the bluntest ends he could manage. He had a manicure that morning, but now with Crowley’s shirtless back in front of him, he had to excuse himself for a visit to a desk by his antique computer where he held his small file.

God help him, was he really doing this? He couldn’t possibly mar Crowley’s back, could he? Those constellations of freckles, an echo of the ones the demon once made. He couldn’t harm those stars, not even accidentally.

But Crowley had asked Aziraphale to put his fingers upon his back, not pressing this time, but scratching. It was one of the first exercises they agreed on. Something that would keep Aziraphale subdued enough, and Crowley above the dissociation that made him willing and pliant.

 _Subspace. He was describing subspace,_ Aziraphale told himself while checking the bluntness of his index fingernail.

He was glad for their talks, informing each other not just about where they stood, but what they experienced during. He was sure Crowley didn’t do extensive research on the matter, but Aziraphale couldn’t keep still until he had. Crowley always wanted to feel first, consequences be damned. Aziraphale’s mind refused to give him peace until he understood the subject thoroughly.

It was suspiciously similar to sensations humans got during erotic practices. But what they did wasn’t erotic, it wasn’t done to spice up their sex lives – which they didn’t have. _Yet,_ a traitorous wishful part of Aziraphale’s brain provided. Their actions still lead to a strong emotional backlash, nonetheless.

Crowley explained that he felt increasingly calmer right after their experimentations. He has been twitchy all his remembered existence, only this time his mind seemed to focus on one thing during the times of stress. Aziraphale was happy to provide for his friend.

For Aziraphale himself it was an untried pleasure. Sure he practiced sex and even some form of eroticism in the past, but it was like tasting bland food – better than nothing, but kind of disappointing after the initial rush. With Crowley, it felt as if sweet-spicy flavor heightened his own true form and sent it back to his human one, where it translated into a euphoria of power. He always felt less than: less than an angel, less than a guardian, less than a soldier, less than a fighter, less than even human. People were social creatures, forming relationships with their peers, growing with time. Aziraphale had never-changing books and Crowley. With the surge of ethereal strength he tapped into when he had a demon at his mercy, he finally felt enough.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley called from the main room.

Aziraphale examined his nails again, tested the sharpness against his own palm as he squeezed them into fists, and walked back to the waiting demon.

Crowley was straddling a chair, arms, and chin resting on the backrest leisurely, his dark lenses staring towards the center of the bookshop. Aziraphale couldn’t help but imagine Crowley’s old hair. What a sight it must have been, the river of long deep red locks against those pale brown stars. His current style short, but with a distinct volume of a mop higher up.

Aziraphale stepped closer, couldn’t help but reach for it. His fingers disappearing into the thickness.

Crowley growled appreciatively, and Aziraphale remembered his job.

_Don’t take too much. You must both remain clear-headed._

He scratched against the scalp and heard Crowley exhale loudly before he burrowed his face into the crock of his elbow.

Nails gave way to fingertips as he brushed them over the small hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck, his other hand placed on the spotted shoulder – where the mark had been visible not two days ago. The stain was still there, but only if you knew where to look, a shade darker than the rest of Crowley’s skin.

A huff interrupted Aziraphale’s musing. Crowley’s shoulders twitched. “Come on, angel, do something.”

“I am,” Aziraphale said, a secret smile pulled against his lips.

“No, you’re not. You’re barely touching me!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s a gentle torture,” he proclaimed.

Crowley groaned, lifting his head to push back against Aziraphale’s fingers.

Aziraphale’s grip on his neck tightened, and he pushed the head back on the chair’s top railing, where it was before. The grip a warning, while the fingers of the other hand remained gentle on Crowley’s back, brushing down towards his spine.

“You’re an arsehole,” Crowley announced, voice muffled.

“I prefer creative.”

Another huff, but this time it was followed by Crowley’s back tensing. The muscles pressing outwards, searching for the friction they so desperately wanted.

Aziraphale hummed before he finally gave in, letting just a bit of nails to come into play. Gentle, barely there.

“Angel,” Crowley warned.

“Only if you stay with me,” Aziraphale said, cradling the knobs on Crowley’s spine. Biting his lip at the suggestion that it meant something more. “Remember what we talked about.”

He could see the ribs expanding and contracting as Crowley took a deep breath. Stars moving apart, then back together in their limited universe. “Communication. Stay on the surface,” Crowley muttered, sounding a bit annoyed.

Aziraphale waited, nails on both scalp and back at the ready. Eying Crowley’s tense biceps from behind, already planning the course of today’s session.

“Stay with you,” Crowley finally agreed.

“Good.”

The first drag of nails across the back made Crowley gasp and sit up straighter. Aziraphale’s hand almost slid from his head.

He growled, an echo of Crowley’s insistence, and gripped the hairs he could reach, effectively pulling Crowley head back, so he was forced to stare at the ceiling. The short hair a chore to hold.

“Is this acceptable?” he asked, feeling the familiar high lighting up the back of his head, somehow making the colors around him brighter.

Crowley moaned and then gasped. Aziraphale waited for the answer. If this was already where Crowley took a dive, he didn’t know how much more physical backtracking he could do.

“Crowley?”

“Gl-gl-glasses,” Crowley finally let out, frown lines showing prominently.

Aziraphale loosened his hold on Crowley’s hair enough to allow the demon to relax his neck. Crowley didn’t move. With the other hand he reached around and plucked the wire connecting the two lenses between Crowley’s nose bridge. Carefully detangling the temples and folding them before laying them on the nearby table.

Crowley kept his eyes closed.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at the trust this demon put in him. Here he was, visibly on the precipice of enjoying whatever made him enjoy this and staying on surface for Aziraphale’s sake.

 _Well, both our sakes,_ Aziraphale corrected himself. “Anything else?”

He could feel the hair pulling when Crowley went to shake his head, but his grip prevented it. Forcing a demon into a verbal confirmation.

It took fifteen seconds for Crowley to get it as well. “No.’m fine,” he whispered.

“Good.” Keep repeating the affirmations, the books said. Make it short and easy to understand.

He reached higher for better purchase on the longer strands, and let his nails drag down on the left side of Crowley’s back, leaving behind white lines that quickly grew red. Repeating the pattern on the right.

Crowley hissed and groaned, his shoulders lifting as Aziraphale felt his own slouching down. An invisible weight of the burden transferred between them. He paused, worried at the notion.

Crowley grumbled when nothing followed, tensing and relaxing his shoulders. “Aziraphale? You a’ight?” His voice sounded low, small. Tense.

“ _I_ am,” Aziraphale admitted. “Are _you_?”

“No.” He could feel Crowley rearrange his body on the chair, moving back, closer to the other body. “Not if you’re going to just stand there like a daft innocent human.”

 _Innocent?_ Now there was a word. Adam and Eve were innocent before the Serpent of Eden offered them a bite of the apple. A child is innocent before their first sin – and God didn’t find the fabled _First Sin_ to be a thing (that was a purely human conception). Angels weren’t innocent just as demons weren’t. They were warriors, fighters, they _couldn’t_ be innocent. But they could be innocent _of something_. Aziraphale was lots of things, but the list of things he was innocent _of_ was brief. He indulged, a lot, and he found himself liking it. Most angels were innocent of human emotions, but Aziraphale could easily identify anger, happiness, pleasure, yearning. Angels had no possessions save for the ones God handed to them at their creation. Yet, here he was, holding Crowley down, with all the intention of taking his willingness for himself.

“I’m neither innocent nor human,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse with emotion.

“Then stop questioning yourself and do what we’re ‘ere to do,” Crowley demanded, his tone gaining volume.

It flared something primal within Aziraphale’s core. A demon raising his voice, defying. His fingers clenched on their own, pressing Crowley into the chair with the strength that rocked it onto its back legs. Crowley wavered his arms, ready to catch himself if he were to fall, but the same hand that pushed him forward also pulled back by the hair. The other leaned on his shoulder, pressing him down to the surface.

The demon was desperately clutching the wood, head pulled back, mouth wide agape in a gasp of air that wasn’t coming. His eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling.

“Breathe,” Aziraphale demanded.

The blown snake-pupil, almost round, narrowed again and searched up until they found Aziraphale looming, studying him upside-down.

It was disconcerting seeing his friend this way. Finally looking into those eyes, understanding the depths that Crowley found so alluring. Not a void at all, as he heard him describe it, but a burrow. A safe-space, free of thoughts and actions. Free to let him be nothing.

“Breathe,” Aziraphale repeated, softer.

Eyes stared at him, reason returning slowly. In a deep inhale, Crowley’s chest expanded outwards. Snake eyes blinked, presenting emotion even with this small twitch. “I’m fine, angel,” the mouth shaped the words, easily read, barely heard.

“Very well.” Aziraphale held on to Crowley’s hair, returning to work. Criss-cross down the back, pausing only when he felt the demon’s lack of breathing. The skin gathered under his fingernails. Despite all the filing, his nails left behind proper scratches in his wake.

But Crowley didn’t tense further. On the contrary, his shoulders sagged at the onslaught, lifting only during the pauses as his eyes searched through Aziraphale’s face to identify if he was doing something dissatisfactory. Twice he caught himself holding his breath. Thanks to the lack of touch, he read the stern expression Aziraphale was offering and remembered to fill his lungs again.

Aziraphale would be lying if he said he didn’t feel prideful. The exhilaration wasn’t strong enough to make him prudent this time, no sudden urge to bite Crowley out of nowhere. And Crowley wasn’t deep enough to turn incoherent.

This was going well.

On that high note, the next begging sound from Crowley came rewarded. Aziraphale pulled the demon backward again. Let him grip the back post, rolling on his bottom, making space between his chest and the chair.

Aziraphale’s free hand stroked the shoulder, as he repositioned himself closer, almost leaning against the other, as his hand dived down the demon’s front.

He could hear a hiccup of caught breath. Waited barely a second so he could confirm that his captive was still breathing, before he pressed his palm against Crowley’s abdomen and dragging up to his heart.

“This alr-?” he started to ask.

Next to his ear, a voice wracked with need interrupted. “More!”

Startled, he almost released the hair. Had to focus on the feel of repeating the motion, pressing hard enough to feel musculature underneath the taut skin. Marveling at the contrast between the demon and his own soft belly. Abdomen muscles not quite visible, but very much present. The lack of fat making the demon an almost text-book perfect specimen.

“Please, please, …” It was a mantra now. “... please, please, please …” Just a breath pushed through Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale would be hard-pressed to identify the word if not for his current heightened hearing.

He blinked away the haze that was starting to overtake him. Too close to the demon’s skin not to smell something brewing underneath. He explored the ribs, a single nail traveling across each groove between the bones.

Crowley giggled. A complete change of the tone to the air escaping his lungs. He went to curl into himself.

“Are you ticklish, my dear?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but ask, repeating the motion.

“No!” Crowley cried, barely holding it in. The volume made Aziraphale’s ears ring this close.

“Really?” he chuckled despite himself. The surge of drunk strength was easy to ignore now that Crowley was bursting through the surface as well. “Preaching false words, dear?”

“Never!” Crowley gasped, trying to hold back the laughter.

Muscles under Aziraphale’s touch shuddered. He scowled, reached up into Crowley’s hair again, pulling the head to the side and back. Reading those sharp, golden eyes. “Are you certain? Punishment for lying to an angel is severe.”

The black in that gaze stretched outwards, accompanied by a whine and a twitch when Aziraphale found a nipple and pinched it.

“‘Zira …”

Down, down Crowley went. Aziraphale could even see the waters through his own tunnel vision. The darkness rising in Crowley, consuming, calming. Shoulders and body completely at ease and compliant. He could even reach up, close the airpipe, prevent Crowley from what he kept stubbornly reminding him to do.

 _Breathe_ , a voice in his own mind reminded him, _breathe!_

He took in air, blinked, and willed the thought away. A spasm opened his hands, releasing both the nipple and hair. Fingers unconsciously twitching, ready to cage the demon’s neck. Denying them, he reached down, clutched the front of Crowley’s belt with one hand, and dragged a finger down his spine with the other.

Crowley leaned back, vertebrae after vertebrae as Aziraphale passed them. His naked upper back meeting Aziraphale clothed upper belly, nestling between the layers and Aziraphale’s own swell there. A content sigh escaping.

Aziraphale marveled at the protrusions of Crowley’s spine until he ran into a leather blockade there as well.

“How are we doing, dearest?” he whispered.

Crowley’s head turned and he half-nuzzled into Aziraphale’s stomach as he slowly surfaced. “Mmm, could do with more.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle, dragging the nails up Crowley’s front. He felt lighter after a check-in, more himself. One of his nails brushed against Crowley’s areola. The demon jumped at the touch, trying to hide the accompanying groan in Aziraphale’s armpit.

“ _Fuck_ ’sake, angel, you’re driving me insane,” he muttered, adjusting in his seat.

“What? This?” Aziraphale asked, pinching the other nipple, tracing his fingers up Crowley’s side, squeezing one shoulder and taking a grasp on his hair again.

“Shit _fuck_!” Crowley yelped into the air, his breath coming in heavy. Spine curving like a bow.

“Sensitive, are we?” Aziraphale asked, letting go of the nipple to squeeze the whole pectoral muscle, lean as it was and hard to grab onto.

But the pressure seemed to be enough, and Crowley buckled in the chair again. His head thrown back, remaining in the position even after Aziraphale released the delicious red locks to reach back and down. His ministrations in front meant that Crowley was subconsciously pushing forward, trapping Aziraphale’s hand there between himself and the chair, abandoning his leaning position.

A hiss interrupted the demon’s groan, and Aziraphale pinched the flesh again, marveling at the different noises Crowley produced. “Crowley?” he prompted carefully.

“It hurt,” Crowley explained offhandedly, focus Aziraphale’s busy hand on his chest.

“Mmhhmm,” Aziraphale provided.

“You’d curse s’well!” Crowley defended. His tone distant, but apparently, he had been sane enough to make idle conversation.

“That’s quite an assumption,” Aziraphale calmly stated, reaching down behind the demon and hooking one finger beneath a belt, lifting upwards. Crowley’s already tight pants were pulled tauter, especially in the front area, making him buck and jump at the same time.

“Oh … duck _damnit_! Fucking! Hell!”

It was a cacophony of insults that made Aziraphale laugh before he stepped away. Crowley slumped forward, clutching at the back of the chair as if it was a lifeline, face dropping into the crook of his hands, heaving. Aziraphale gave him a moment, reaching up to muss the red hair before announcing a break of their short session.

Before he could properly pull away, the demon stood and turned, glaring, pupils wide as Aziraphale had ever seen. Examining the angel up and down, stopping at his groin.

Aziraphale’s laughter died down almost instantly. His member had been half-full, but thanks to his protruding stomach and choice of pants, he doubted it was even noticeable.

Crowley’s eyes followed back up, unblinking, unnerving the other. “Okay, that’s it,” he muttered under his breath. Reaching forward, long fingers stopped on the first button of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, popping it open like it was an everyday event.

Then he unbuttoned the next one, and the next one, the chain of his pocket-watch tinkling with the movement.

Aziraphale couldn’t only stand there, staring back into those golden-black eyes, feeling the fingers over the layers of his clothing. He tried to read what Crowley wanted from him, he really did. But the demon’s mouth was a line of adamance; the frown lines exactly as when he was deep in a drunk debate; his bare eyes aflame with a decision made.

The last button undone, Crowley parted the waistcoat, half-pushing at it until Aziraphale got the idea and slid it off his own shoulders, letting it fall on the comfy chair behind him. Exposed and uncertain in just a shirt. As if he lost part of his armor that kept him together, without it, he didn’t know where his own lines ended.

Crowley measured him with a sharp nod and turned around, facing the sofa.

Aziraphale studied the lines of red on Crowley’s back, the damage he caused, one or two even deep enough for the blood to seep through. He was horrified at himself, at what he’d done. Opened his mouth to apologize.

A sound of metal scraping against leather stopped him - a zip parting.

Crowley reached behind him, thumbs in his waistband, and pushed down. He struggled and jumped, making some part of Aziraphale’s mind laugh at the sight. Fortunately, the reaction didn’t translate, and his mouth remained agape and silent.

Even as Crowley finally managed to free the barely-there swell of his buttocks, Aziraphale stood thunderstruck.

The jeans and underwear went easier down the legs, uncovering thighs covered in dark-red hair. The lines on this part of Crowley a work of art as well, somehow. Hair seizing just below the buttocks, going higher at the sides. _Like stockings,_ Aziraphale’s inner sense provided. Did Crowley shape it like that with shaving? It seemed redundant to spend time on it, but what did Aziraphale know. Especially right now, as Crowley was kicking his trousers the rest of the way off, flinging it to the side.

Aziraphale’s eyes couldn’t even follow the article of clothing offending his carefully situated room where everything was exactly where it belonged. His eyes glued to the workings of the calves as Crowley toed off even his socks, one after the other, and finally straightened, sighing to himself.

Aziraphale waited. Afraid to move to scare this beautiful wild animal that seemed to feel so at home in his bookshop. He studied where the lines that his nails left behind ended, the trouser imprint under Crowley’s hips, the hair, the lean thighs, the slightly bigger calves he already touched too many days ago.

_What_ _…_ _Does he mean to-?_

With another deep sigh, Crowley plummeted himself face-first onto the sofa, one hand dangling off the side.

He groaned in content, stretching out, tops of his feet bending to lean on the armrest.

Aziraphale appreciated the lines anew. A landscape of some beautiful desert in the sunrise. Gold and cool.

Finally, his eyes found Crowley’s. He saw the demon smirking as he watched him in return.

“Come, angel,” he purred, “there’s a ‘hole lower-half ‘npunished.”


	7. The Push

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers) for extra quick beta!
> 
> Pls, encouraging comments ... or just any comments are welcome. (Except for: "write more" coz that's the most discouraging comment a writer can get besides a hateful feedback).

_There is in every delicate thing, no matter how precious, nor how beautiful, a challenge. Break me._   
_\- Mark Lawrence, Red Sister_

* * *

Crowley really needed to start biting his own tongue. With paralytic toxin in his fangs if at all possible. Not just for his own sake, but to stop making Aziraphale question his own moralities. Even a blind man would notice the pauses the angel took for himself to analyze the propriety of his next step. Forging their own side took a toll on the bastard. Their own side gave them a break from their respective hosts, but Aziraphale was still a soldier in Her magnificence, and in the back of the mind, the notion that She was omnipresent must have been driving him insane.

What could an old serpent such as himself do but to make him dumbstruck enough to forget the gaze that might not even be aimed their way, and was uncaring even if it was? So in his own lack of consideration, he mouths something that felt good to him.

Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on Crowley’s nakedness, eyes wide at the words. Gaze following Crowley’s outstretched body to his feet and back again, lingering on his bottom.

Crowley knew there wasn’t much to him to look at. He was scrawny, bones and sinew, even his buttocks flat with lack of fat. But Aziraphale’s gaze made him feel enough. The poor angel even swallowed while he stood there like a nitwit, rocking on his heels.

True to his word, Crowley stayed on the surface; the scratching just enough to allow him to dip his toes into the coveted oblivion. His hated thoughts lingered, but there was discoordination to them, their punchlines never quite landing. He felt the lines on his body, could already imagine the itching of their healing.

Aziraphale stood frozen, disheveled, the lack of his waistcoat making him look fetching as if caught in a hurry. His bowtie askew. Eyes wide as a deer with the approaching headlights.

Crowley thought of giving him some time to recover from whatever high he was currently experiencing before making him douse himself in another. He _did_ want to kill the bastards of the mind today - the thoughts that made him wish and want. Resting his head on one arm, he enjoyed the chilly air on his back.

Eventually, Aziraphale blinked, shaking himself as he came to his senses. His eyes flickered to Crowley’s smug expression, and he huffed at the impudence. “Really, you old serpent,” he sighed. “No respect for other people’s order ...” he went on the hunt for Crowley’s clothes that had been flicked to the side.

Crowley watched him find and neatly fold his socks before placing them on the chair, draping the back of it with his own shed waistcoat. He passed Crowley and bent over to pick up his pants from the pile of books, fishing out his boxers and folding them on his own forearm and went on to save the belt from all the loops. The dark material of Crowley’s clothes contrasted Aziraphale’s white shirt, and Crowley wondered how much a naked demon sprawled on the disgustingly patterned sofa stood out from the rest of the bookshop.

Aziraphale turned back to the chair to put away Crowley’s remaining attire, but Crowley reached out and grabbed the dangling belt to stop him. “Come on, angel,” he said softly, for a moment forgetting that his glasses were discarded and he was begging Aziraphale with eyes of puke-yellow and snake-slitted.

Aziraphale, to his credit, only frowned returning the look. “What do you expect me to do, Crowley? I can’t very well blemish all of you.”

 _You could if you wanted to._ But Crowley knew that was too much to ask this early. He tugged on the belt until it slid halfway out of the angel’s grip. Aziraphale tightened the hold, refusing to give way.

Crowley smiled encouragingly. “Just one slap across the arse, angel,” he begged. “Just to see how it feels.”

Aziraphale downright rolled his bright eyes, grumbling to himself as he turned away, yanked the belt out of Crowley’s grip and went to lay down Crowley’s slacks, keeping the belt in hand.

Crowley hid his grin in the soft cushion that he managed to drag closer.

“Fine,” Aziraphale said, standing next to the sofa, closer to his intended target.

The silence stretched and Crowley wondered when the slap was incoming.

 _Now?_ Not yet. He strained his ears.

_Now? No._

_Now! No?_

He counted the seconds, doubt slowly setting in.

_How about now?_

He groaned, peeking from within his makeshift nest, checking if the angel was still even there.

The first thing he noticed was the belt dangling from a hand. Then he noticed the fabric pulled back, folded, revealing a strong forearm peppered with pale, barely noticeable hair. The expanse of it made him doubt the gravitational pull. Surely, at this moment, the universe rotated around that taut muscle that somehow both intimidated him and made him feel incredibly safe. That muscle could pack a punch or whip a belt. Aziraphale buttoned up the second fold to keep the sleeve in place.

“One,” he promised, voice distant, testing the bite of the leather on his own hand.

_Slap!_

The sound of it made Crowley twitch.

 _Yeah, that brings back some bothersome memories_ , he figured, ignoring his initial reaction to hide or strike back. This time it won’t be just a dull sensation to his body accompanied by offensive words and a feeling of being outed, or needing to change the location for a couple of decades at least until the dust settles. This time it would actually hurt the way it was supposed to. And he was willing to bet Aziraphale won’t be quite so jeering about it.

He put his face back to the pillow, closing his eyes, counting the times his mind was wrong in proclaiming the _Now!_

_Three._

_Five._

_Eight._

Suddenly he felt a touch, but not the expected leather-to-the-buttocks one, but a gentle caress of Aziraphale’s hand on his upper back. Brushing across the barely-stinging lines up to his nape, where it folded firmly, but not tightly.

He was just starting to ask the angel what the deal was when the hold turned hard for a moment, pushing him further down into the cushion.

_SLAP!_

He heard it way before he felt it. It was pressure, yes, but not much more painful than Aziraphale’s blunt nails on his skin before. _I must have overstated-_

The burn followed. An ember pressed to his skin, spreading out over the borders of where the belt landed. Crowley hissed in pain. Loudly. _Oh, this is something I can WORK with!_

He could hear the angel behind him searching for words of apology. The fact that he was half-stumbling over the first syllables spoke volumes of what it did for him.

“Again,” Crowley whined, pressed into his pillow, “please.”

_SLAP!_

He hissed again and groaned, momentarily submerged into the sweet nothing.

“Crowley?” the voice brought him back. Not soft either, but strong and authoritative, demanding an answer. The fact was that Aziraphale was barely putting a fragment of his strength into the hits, the burn after more prominent than the actual landing.

It was infuriating.

“Again,” Crowley breathed. Realized that the sound didn’t carry. “Again!” he yelled into the cushion.

_SLAP!_

The grip on the back of his neck remained hard. It was the only thing connecting him to the physical world anymore. He didn’t know if he was grateful for it or if he saw it as a bothersome obstacle that prevented him from getting what he wanted. “More ... please,” he whined.

_SLAP!_

“Count them,” came an order.

Crowley inhaled deeply before the words made sense. _How many was that? Two? Three?_ “Umm ... four?” he tried, loud enough to be heard.

_SLAP!_

“Fuck!” He realized the pressure in his pelvic area, opposite of the burns on his arse.

“Count!” Aziraphale’s voice was raspy, heavy. Covering some need, some emotion, demanding control of himself, and of the surroundings.

“F-five!” Crowley stammered, shocked at his own surfacing. The air hitting his lungs.

_SLAP!_

The sixth one went directly into his prick as if the nerves were connected by a straight line. His lower back shook. He stabilized it by pressing down, moaning when his hardness dragged on the rough fabric underneath.

“Six!” He inhaled sharply, surprised how easy it was to dive under, and use the same momentum to push himself up and over.

Being mostly coherent, but absent of thoughts, meant his flesh was waking up like it didn’t in a while. He could feel his body hair stand on ends, the skin demanding he sweat, the lack of pores refusing to do so. He really must miracle some of those into existence. For the time being, he sent all the excess heat into the lower region, it was already at full alert as it was, what more harm could it do?

_SLAP!_

Okay, fine, so Aziraphale will have to deep clean the sofa if the feel of wetness on his abdomen was something to go by.

“Seven,” he muttered, realizing his entire body shuddered.

He heard something hitting the floor, and then Aziraphale was right there next to his face, hands gently stroking his sides, avoiding both his scratched back and his burning arse.

All at once, Crowley let go and fell into something akin to a nap. It was just a second, a deep breath, eyes closed, muscles relaxing. But then he was shaken awake, and Aziraphale was sitting by his head, fingers scratching at his scalp.

Crowley moaned at the care, turning his head to the side, so he could breathe and talk at the same time.

“I apologize,” Aziraphale offered, tone dark and self-condemning. “I went too far.”

“Not t’far, angel,” Crowley yawned, suddenly feeling very sleepy after the whole affair. “‘joyed it.”

“You were shaking by the end.”

“I …” Crowley thought how to word it, “leaked?” His mind was a fog, thickening, demanding further rest in a dreamless state. “I made a mess of your sofa, I think.”

Aziraphale chuckled at that. It was a soft, carefree tone. The absence of guilt calmed Crowley enough that he reached for now-familiar full thigh and dragged himself up onto his knees. Aziraphale’s hand fell away from his head to his shoulder. Not pushing away, but merely being a support so he didn’t tumble directly off the sofa. Crowley was grateful for stability. So grateful, in fact, that he climbed deeper into it, twisted around and curled into a ball half-in the angel’s lap, his thin legs bent away at an angle.

“Oh,” Aziraphale exclaimed in surprise at first. But in less than a beat, he wrapped his arms under Crowley’s knees and around his back, holding him close. Fingers stroked where they reached, and Crowley hummed in appreciation.

His arse and back burned in this position, but he needed closeness more than help with some welts. It was all just a distant pain now, reminding him that his cooperation was solid. Nicely nestled against the soft chest, Crowley drifted.

Fingers stopped.

“Um, Crowley?” Aziraphale chin prodded gently at the top of Crowley’s head.

“Mmm?” Crowley hummed, a bit annoyed at the disturbance.

“Do you need help with that?”

Crowley blinked open one eye and lazily looked up, unable to see what the angel was referring to. Fingers on his thigh tapped, and Crowley looked down to it, eyes unable to miss his hard, and a bit wet prick laying across his hair-trail.

 _Oh._ He glared at it a bit, irritated that it brought attention to itself - the smooth head twitching as he pushed awareness into it.

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped.

“Nah,” Crowley drawled, snuggling deeper into the angel’s lap. “It’ll go away.”

For some reason, Aziraphale’s chest inflated, as if he took a particularly deep breath. Or forgot to breathe for a few moments before. Crowley took it as an invitation to melt against the softness and doze off.


	8. The Understanding

_And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming_   
_Or the moment of truth in your lies_   
_When everything feels like the movies_   
_Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive  
\- Iris, Goo Goo Dolls _

* * *

Crowley awoke alone. He was sprawled naked on Aziraphale’s sofa and one of the blankets, facing the back. His stomach and balls itched under the second blanket that was draped over him.

He groaned, threw off the cover, scratched, unstuck his balls from his thigh, and rolled himself onto his back, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. The sun was still set, so he couldn’t have been sleeping for longer than a few hours.

He sighed in content at the memory. Aziraphale finally stepping up to his taunts, lashing Crowley with a bit more vigor, if not his strength. Seven lashes, when he only promised Crowley one.

Oh, how sweetly they’ll burn-

At that, Crowley considered that he didn’t feel any burn. Not on his back, not on his arse.

He sat up, pressing his bottom deeper into the sofa. Nothing.

He reached up and over his shoulder. There were no welts to feel. He looked down and saw pristine skin. He was almost one-hundred percent sure that Aziraphale left some pretty nasty scratches there.

Suddenly, a wave of panic smashed down onto him from high above. Too high to see the roof of it. And with it, all the thoughts that were supposedly sent away with the theoretical torture he suffered at the hand of the only other being he trusted.

His breath was coming in a hundred miles per hour, hitching, his chest almost vibrating from it. Then not at all.

It was all a dream, wasn’t it? He and Aziraphale finally finding that one thing to share beyond platonic friendship. Why would an angel want him like that? Why would any angel help scare away Crowley’s inner turmoils? The chaos in his head made him weaker, right? It wouldn’t do to banish it away. It was what made him _him_ _!_ Even Aziraphale wouldn’t want to help with that. Taking away Crowley’s mess of a mind was like taking away Aziraphale’s trust in Her. Aziraphale wouldn’t be Aziraphale without faith, and Crowley wouldn’t be Crowley without those jeering voices of guilt, of regret.

He curled himself in a ball, miracled his nails long and sharp, scratched them across the forearms, thighs, and chest, anywhere he could reach ... to feel something. To wake up in case this was a nightmare. To crawl out of his skin if it wasn’t. Snakes can shed their skin; it was a while since he was a snake.

 _Breathe!_ a calm, yet demanding voice from his dreams reminded him. _Breathe!_

Let the air in! Right! It lessens the pain. He inhaled, ribs shaking. It was like lightning up every bulb in the city, a line of lights glowing too strongly, threatening to break through the glass. It burned on the inside. It made it worse!

_Exhale!_

He let it out through the mouth. Letting go. The bulbs went out one by one. Safely turned off, each. His shaking eased, and he uncurled a bit, stopped the nails tearing into his sides to bury his fingers in his own hair, pulling for support as much as for a sense of grounding.

Tears streamed down his face. For fucks’ sake, he was turning native. Native enough not to change skin, but not native enough to do any real damage to himself. He wanted to scream. He bit his tongue, making sure not to disturb Aziraphale’s space with his noise. A high pitched whine escaped him anyway, escaped raw out of his throat.

“Crowley?”

The voice came from the room next to his own, where Aziraphale kept the kitchen appliances. The angel himself rounded the corner, frowning at the state of his guest, before blinking in obvious panic himself.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” He rushed to him, hand wavering to touch, but clearly not knowing where.

Crowley was full of self-inflicted lesions. They looked bad on the surface, making his skin red. None of them went deep enough to cause any damage, and since the demon had done it to himself, none actually hurt.

“You healed me!” Crowley gritted out, showing teeth like a wild animal.

“Well, of course I healed you!” Aziraphale stated. “You were a mess!”

“We said no miracles! Those were YOUR marks!”

“Crowley, you had welts all over.” His eyes regarded the current state of the demon, nostrils flaring a bit. “I couldn’t just have you-”

“YES, you could!” Crowley insisted, leaning back and rubbing at his already healing scratches.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked ready to cry and push the argument at the same time. It was funny how Crowley always expected the first to happen, even though the second one won over each time.

“Don’t heal me from something you made, EVER AGAIN!” he demanded, voice loud, almost screaming, knowing that if he gave Aziraphale any hope to gain ground, the angel would claim it.

Aziraphale froze at that. As if he was turned into solid stone. He stood there, feet grounded, mouth opened, ready to continue their dispute, fists at his side, belly and chest demanding space as his muscles tensed. Only his eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then he huffed and relaxed his stance, hands coming up to the edge of his waistcoat to get rid of imaginary wrinkles formed during their outburst.

“Crowley, my dear, I gave you seven lashes,” he said distantly as if he was reading a screenplay. “While we only agreed on one.”

Crowley bit his lip, fished for the blanket, and covered his unmentionables. “Yeah, I mean …” He remembered begging for more.

“You knew what would happen if you keep pushing.”

Crowley remembered the pauses between the first few, and how Aziraphale let loose after them, demanding he count them. Like someone in complete control over a person might. And he remembered how it allowed him to dive, how it scattered him, how it turned him on.

“You manipulated me into doing that,” Aziraphale finally said, tone like ice.

“No!” Well … maybe … yeah... but the angel didn’t need to know that!

He made himself look up, to nail in the lie and make himself seem innocent of the crime. It was a mistake. The cold that stared back at him almost gave him frostbite.

He looked away, swallowing, pretending he was searching for his damn clothes. He knew his behavior might as well be a loud admission.

Aziraphale huffed and turned on his heels, marching back into the kitchen area with the grace of an especially annoyed goose. If Crowley were pettier, he would’ve rolled his eyes at his back.

Who was he kidding?

Crowley stretched over the empty space, reaching all the way across for his carefully folded pants when the angel reappeared, a cup of tea in each hand. He almost tumbled out of the sofa as he passed him, unbalanced while clutching the blanket to his nether regions.

Aziraphale disappeared for another minute and returned with a pitcher of water and a glass that he put down near Crowley, pouring the water for him.

Crowley sulked, refusing to touch the clearly hot tea or cold water. He managed to retrieve his boxers, folded in half, and lay down, lifting his hips to drag them on.

Aziraphale said nothing, just sat down with a heavy sigh, taking his cup of tea, inhaling the aroma.

“Fine,” Crowley finally caved. “What d’ya wanna hear? An apology? You know I’m not-”

He could see Aziraphale’s slow blink. He was well versed in the meaning of each movement of this particular angel. A blink could mean a number of things, a slow blink narrowed it down. A slow blink with that sour expression on his face...

 _Save it,_ his mind translated for him.

“Then what do you want from me?”

Aziraphale took a sip of what looked like to be scalding hot tea without even flinching. Then he took a deep breath.

“I want us to trust each other.”

“I trust you!” Crowley shot out. How could Aziraphale think otherwise?

“But can I trust you, Crowley?” Aziraphale slowly asked.

“Whatya’ mean?”

“We said we’re discovering this together. And we would respect each other limits-”

“I respected your limits!”

The look in Aziraphale’s eyes turned dangerous. “Allow me to finish, please.”

Crowley went to say something, then closed his yap. _Bite your tongue for once!_ he told himself.

“I agreed to one lash. You begged me for more.” Aziraphale stared at Crowley over his cup with an expression that would make a lesser being turn their tail and run. “I gave you more, despite my better judgment.” He took a deep breath, the steam disappearing into his flaring nostrils.

As much as it fascinated Crowley to see this calm and cold Aziraphale show up outside their moments, his brain started on some pretty decent objections. _How are we supposed to see where our limits are if we do not stretch them? At what point is the experiment falling into a category of too-fast? Why is it always too-fast with you? How was I supposed to react?_

The last question seemed to be evident on his face as Aziraphale nodded.

“Consider,” he said, “what happened after the lashing.”

Crowley had a fuzzy memory of that. He remembered himself searching the comfort of Aziraphale’s softness. He remembered the embrace. He remembered dozing off.

Aziraphale read him without an issue. “You were very excitable in a specific area,” he provided.

 _Oh, that._ Why was _that_ a part of this conversation?

“I asked you if you want my help with it. You declined.”

Crowley panicked a bit, his breath hitching. He didn’t consider Aziraphale to be a stickler for that, but the bastard kept surprising him. He remembered that men - his jobs, his targets - grew annoyed sometimes if the mood struck and he didn’t provide. “Should I have-”

“No!” Aziraphale went to shake his head just as fast. He set down the platter and the cup, reaching across space to Crowley, brushing his fingers assuringly across the closest part of the demon, which happened to be his knee. “Nothing of the sort, dear!”

“Then what?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed. He was growing tired of the confusion.

“I _asked_ , and you _answered_ me. I didn’t push forward because you have stated your preference.” He sighed heavily. “I only wish to be provided with the same consideration.”

Crowley thought for a moment. “I _asked_ ,” he told the angel, not seeing the issue.

“No, Crowley. You begged.”

“That’s the same. You could’ve said no.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, suddenly looking very tired. “It’s really not.”

Crowley opened his mouth.

“If I would have begged to touch you …”

For a moment, Crowley’s brain froze at that mental image. Aziraphale not taking no for an answer. Instead, continuing to prod at Crowley to _please, please,_ let him touch the only part of him that still stood at attention. To wring him out totally and completely …

“… would you stand by your decision?”

 _No, I most definitely would not._ He would’ve been alert in half a second, ready to receive whatever the angel would dish out. Ready to sate the hunger in the other, like pushing an apple into Tantalus’ mouth. And he would watch Aziraphale whole, physical and ethereal, knowing that he had provided what angel begged for.

He took a deep breath to get himself out of that gutter. Wide eyes searched out Aziraphale’s, cursing for the lack of sunglasses to hide behind.

“Alright,” he nodded, understanding. “So I shoulda ask outright instead of jus’ staying in the zone.”

“I would prefer it that way. It is more clear when we’re more … clear-headed, I suppose?” Aziraphale went back to his tea, smiling for the first time.

Seeing that smile again was one of those rare moments when Crowley could swear he could see the Heaven’s door far off. Those true ones, for the mortals.

“Just t’clarify,” he said before he could linger on the image. “If I want something more done that we haven’t tried yet … I can ask? During? ... Like, for instance, ‘f I asked for lashings and waited f’your answer?”

“Easier to consider it neutrally, I must admit,” Aziraphale nodded.

“And then beg?” Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale laughed, almost snorting in the tea. He put down the cup and dabbed at his nose with his kerchief, eyes smiling the whole time. “You wily demon!” He reached over for one of Crowley’s articles of clothing, playfully tossing it to the demon.

It was a shirt. Crowley put it on, buttoning already on reflex. “And if the answer is no?” he asked, more solemnly.

“Then, we discuss it at an appropriate moment, preferably over a good lunch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't as much problematic as necessary, and I loved writing it. 
> 
> All of these things ... communication, panic, lack of marks, not being on the same page ... that's normal start to any relationship ... even friends with benefits that start their dive into BDSM (which is basically my only relationship experience). 
> 
> Now, years later, I understand that these conversations are natural and have to happen - more frequent = healthier -, and I wish I could've had Aziraphale's clarity when I needed it ... instead of Crowley's panic on both sides, our reasons different, yet similar.  
> (Also, for anyone out there currently experiencing what I'm talking about ... communicate YOUR wishes, stand by them, and try to understand the other ... in my case we were both too 'giving', always asking what the other wants, assuming they wanted more than they said, not considering ourselves.  
> Please don't be the same kind of moron - try a different way to fail for a while ...  
> Turned out giving the other one notes on how to please you - what you like, what you don't like, what bothered you last time - actually works towards you being pleased and the other one not worrying 95% of the time ... who would've thought?  
> And if anyone doesn't respect your wishes ... you ditch that person fast!)
> 
> Yes, the start of this chapter is one of the songs that NEVER FAILS to make me cry. Because if I'm writing a panic attack, I sure as hell am gonna mess with my own emotions.


	9. The Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers) for the needed beta!
> 
> Sorry for being late.  
> Work killed me. And my respawn time lasted ages.  
> Hopefully, I've bounced back enough. We shall see.
> 
> Nothing like encouraging comments to keep me alive and writing!

_"Instant gratification takes too long."_

_\- Carrie Fisher_

* * *

**  
** The good lunch came and went, multiple ones at that. It wasn’t that the angel and the demon were avoiding the subject of their new hobby; they just lacked the ideas of how to proceed.

Crowley was ready to backtrack. Find something milder that would keep him present while Aziraphale trained up his own tolerance.

Aziraphale was pushing himself despite that. Not a week ago, the demon walked into the store, startling the angel into cursing loudly. Upon investigation, he found his friend trying to untie a knot of the curtain string he pulled too tightly. There was a guide to sailor’s knots opened wide on the windowsill.

They sat around conversing a lot - 6000 years’ worth of content to debate over good drink and food.

“China?”

“Bah! Not going there again!”

“But … tea!” Aziraphale protested.

“That’s ages ago, angel!” Crowley insisted. “Now s’all human overpopulation ‘n political trouble ‘n too much light! Get with the times!”

Aziraphale didn’t look like he wanted to get with the times.

~ ~ ~

Crowley was handling it rather well. The anxiety he tasted last time and the knowledge he overstepped some kind of boundary dampened his need to ‘scratch the itch’.

Even so, their talks eventually switched to their experience in the field of physical touch. Their adamant distance up to the Apocalypse-scare finally came up over the last two bottles of wine Crowley ‘acquired’ in the poker game after the wine auction.

Aziraphale sighed. “They’re always watching … smelling for evil, you know … like, like … hawks … but with noses! Do birds have noses?”

“That ‘splains your outburst in Byzantine, ‘mem-em-ember? When we’re sloshed ‘n I ssstumbled intah you!” Crowley burped and reached across the empty space, pressing his finger into Aziraphale’s side, a bit surprised at the soft depths he could reach.

“Wha’s that?” the angel asked, shooing the demon, looking green as he rubbed his stomach.

“Shoved me away, yelling, ‘Begone, Snake of Hell!’”, Crowley yelled loudly, trying to imitate Aziraphale’s posh tone, “‘Your skin is hard! Your clothes are fake! ‘N your legs are unnatural!’”

Aziraphale laughed, bent over himself. “All very … very fine points!” he heaved.

“Then! THEN! Then-then … then! Y’ shushed me! Leaned in,” Crowley did so conspiratorially, “‘n told me ta act like ya’ really hurt mah feelings.” He leaned back. “Jus’n case.”

“Well, of course, my dear! I didn’t want us to get in trouble!”

~ ~ ~

It was the conversation during their relative sobriety that moved the borders of their intention - finally opening the subject of sexuality that they both toed.

“Sexual pleasure can be quite nice, Crowley,” Aziraphale proclaimed, his lips too smiley for complete sobriety, his eyes still clear.

“Wuss ne’er nice,” Crowley wiggled his nose in distaste from the floor where he sat. “Did plenty of jobs, temptation, tosses in the straw, and such. Lotta work for nothing. Maybe sometimes half-a-second of relaxation. If ya lucky.”

“No, dear!” Aziraphale protested. “You were doing it quite wrong then.”

“Doing my job. Did my job. Worked, innit?”

“I used to think nothing of it as well,” Aziraphale said. “Used it to get me things - presents, first editions, luxury. But then I learned.” He sighed, softening further. “Having a lover, my dear Crowley, is like having a … a … plant you can take care of.

Crowley snorted. “Seriously doubt that!”

“There are people with beautiful and interesting souls. Such lovely potential! And you get to be so close to them! You get to present a song to the tune they dance so artfully!”

Crowley’s mind darkened. It sounded like Aziraphale wanted a human to be intimate with, and this wouldn’t bother Crowley so much, but what they were currently doing _was_ intimate. What if Aziraphale stopped trying with him and found himself some ‘artful soul’ to sample again?

He banished the thought with a swig of the bottle.

“Crowley, may I inquire about something?”

Crowley waved. “Inquire away, angel!”

“I noticed … well …” Aziraphale struggled with the wording until his hand found the ring. As always, that seemed to harden him. “Your member, I saw last time, there’s a scar on it.”

“Ah!” Crowley lifted his arms and stood up from the floor, turning and plopping down onto the sofa, right next to Aziraphale, throwing the hand that still held the bottle across his shoulders. “Called circum-circu-cir … they cut it off, angel! Some fo’ sssskin \- _chink!_ Goes away! Ya’ guys’ idea, sssupposedly.”

“No!”

“Yeah, yeah! Was on a job … Egypt, or Middle East … don’t know … know there was lotsss’a sand! ‘Fore … ‘fore … ‘fore the whole deal with Rome.”

“Oh …” Aziraphale seemed deep in thought. “There was quite an activity of angels there at that time, yes. They just made up rules on the fly, most of them!”

“So, ssso, ssso … what happened wasss,” Crowley sucked air through his teeth, “the job, he saw my eyes - ‘course, no glasses then … decided to cleanse me of the demonic influence. Still have no f’kin clue what my penis had to do with my eyes or the fact that I’m a demon … completely different part of the corporation … but it seemed to do it for him. Pervert!”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale condoled. “And you never healed it?”

“Nah, wha’s the use,” Crowley moped, getting moody with the drink and the talk and the fact that Aziraphale seemed to try to soothe him. “Not that it changed much in the way o’the… Din’t feel like much doing it before, din’t feel like much doing it after. F’anything, am less alert to it now. Less the trouble.”

“I understand, dear,” Aziraphale nodded.

A moment passed.

“However,” Aziraphale started again, insistent, “I wouldn’t be averse to trying to make it feel good for you, dear. If you were ever willing, of course!”

“‘Course I’m willing, angel. I did check it, didn’t I? But … I dunno … takes energy …”

Aziraphale thought it through. “We have to work on timing,” he nodded to himself like he was making mental notes, looking so much more invested in this talk than Crowley. “After an intense session, you are tired and do not wish to deal with it.”

“I mean, yeah.”

Then through the booze-fog in his brain, a clear thought reached Crowley. The realization made him jump, almost losing the now empty bottle.

“But if you want t’ do it, angel,” he said loudly, “I can pleasure you all you want! Swear! S’no problem!”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice was soft but still stubbornly clear. “That is not at all what I’m referring to.” He took the bottle out of Crowley’s grip and put it down before taking his empty hand. “If it comes to that, we will both be willing, and I will give as much as I get. That is my policy.”

Crowley snorted. “Such a sappy romantic, angel.”

“I wouldn’t appreciate humanity half as much if I weren’t.”

Crowley groaned. “I suppose.”

~ ~ ~

The subject was open to discuss from that point on, even during meals. While Aziraphale enjoyed his dessert, he asked quick questions about what he was doing on those jobs. Crowley, stimulated by coffee, gave him all the gritty details and long-winded commentary.

Aziraphale didn’t look turned off by the graphic description at all.

When Crowley mentioned this, the angel chuckled, dabbing his lips with a serviette. “My dear Crowley,” he finally said, “I’m finding that I have more experience with sexual acts and definitely more fascination about the way a physical body works than you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aziraphale grinned. “It’s been 6000 years, and you still haven’t figured out how to operate your pelvic area.”

Crowley scowled. “I can operate it just fine.”

“If you say so, dear.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and stood.

~ ~ ~

They have started upping their miracles slowly. Crowley used his quota mostly for his drives with the Bently.

One day he found himself following a bishop whose car was way out of his profession’s league. The corrupt suffragan drove out across London to Ascot Racecourse. The place was crowded due to an annual event, every person there smartly dressed, pushing their way to their seats, bets taking place.

Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the banquet of temptation opportunities. He merely walked into the throng of people, and it was enough for arguments to start out of nowhere. Women screaming at their husbands, men insulting each other in posh tones, betting values reaching astronomical numbers. Most of these rich people will go home broke today. Crowley looked at the numbers on display and decided that the underdog should be victorious for once.

He stepped up close to the fence, glared at the horses and their jockeys getting ready. The animals snorted and stomped, sensing him. First, he considered messing with the best ones, but even though the animals didn’t like him and would downright hurt him if they could, Crowley didn’t feel the need to return the favor.

He waited until they were all in their stalls, ready for the starting shot, the tension in the air as the crowd held a breath in unison. Then he miracled a few broken seams on riders’ tight padded pants, a shoe sole falling off, a saddle strap ripping. A whip appeared in his own hand, and he examined it a bit surprised that it was that easy.

The low pop sounded. The gates opened. Animals ran out and down the track despite the chaos on their backs. Eventually, all slowed down at the insistence of their riders, except for one.

Crowley turned, searching out the bishop standing in the crowd, the face red in anger as he yelled at the racers with the rest. Even from this far away, he could see the horror slowly setting in. Crowley walked back towards his car with a merry whistle, using the whip to scratch his back. The commentary through the speakers remained dispassionately monotonous - a genuine display of the British indifference.

~ ~ ~

“We’re closed,” Aziraphale called from behind his current restoration project when the bell on the door jingled.

“Naturally,” Crowley replied, closing the door and locking it.

It was still daytime, but people had more exciting things to do on a rare sunny day than visit old bookstores, and the feeling was mutual.

“Brought you something.” He came up to Aziraphale and peered over his shoulder, taking in the coverless old tome, Aziraphale’s gloves, the smell of glue in the air.

“I’m sorry, dear, but I really must wait for this to dry before I can eat whatever it is you’ve bought.”

Crowley frowned at the implications that he only ever gifted angel food. “Not that kind of something,” he said, placing the crop on the table next to the tome’s new cover.

He couldn’t see Aziraphale’s face, but he could see his shoulders tense the moment it sunk in. Aziraphale finally looked to him, his round spectacles doing nothing to cover his expression of wonder.

Feeling self-conscious, Crowley half-shrugged, half-waved-it-off.

Aziraphale turned back to his work with renewed energy. His movements hurried, but no less precise. Crowley settled to haunting the bookshop shelves, never wandering far from the working angel. The smell of glue ticking a burn in his nostrils and the roof of his mouth.

A series of rhythmic taps brought him back to Aziraphale where he peeked over his shoulder to better see the meticulousness his friend brought even to the finishing touches. The book was turned this way and that, checked on all sides, positioned on the table and nudged around to see if it held together. Then it was just left there in peace as the angel looked on, gently proud of his work.

Then he suddenly stood up, and Crowley hastily took two steps back. He told himself it was to give the angel some space. Aziraphale was somewhat intimidating with that sharp look, his mouth a line of seriousness, his attire perfectly put together. Crowley knew he was making himself smaller in response.

One gloved hand rested on the crop’s handle. In the short time, Crowley was quite sure Aziraphale forgot all about his drag-in, a bit surprised when he was proven otherwise. His stupid mind was already getting ready for the leave of absence.

Aziraphale must have seen it on his face, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Now, my dear, you visited a sex shop just to procure me the hardiest weapon you could find?” he asked, examining the craftsmanship like it was another artifact.

“Visited-? … Nah, angel …” Crowley’s tongue wasn’t able to form any witty comebacks. The truth was less complicated to voice. “This is an original purpose tool … nicked it from horse racing down at the Ascot track.”

Aziraphale laughed in good humor, the calm composure dissipating as he took off his own spectacles. “Now, that is a story I’d love to hear!”

Crowley leaned back, thrown off by the change of Aziraphale’s demeanor. “Not really a story … just a series of events born out of boredom,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale hummed, waiting for something that Crowley couldn’t specify. “Oh, well,” he finally said, expression brightening. “I’ll go fetch us the wine.” He took off the cotton gloves - slow and deliberate, one finger at the time, Crowley would be forced to guess - placing them neatly on the armrest of his favorite reading chair. He made to step around Crowley but stopped himself at the last second. “Unless you’d rather have tea or coffee?”

Crowley’s skin was already buzzing. He’d probably start sending out radiation waves with any additional caffeine. Wine to dull his senses sounded great!

Then he remembered Aziraphale mentioning in one of their recent talks that he never indulged in experimentation with inebriated partners. Through the dark lenses, Crowley watched Aziraphale for any minuscule change and found there was quite a lot of it. Aziraphale’s face was always so open with expressions. He made himself gulp down the lump in his throat and say, “Jus’ tea, ta.”

Aziraphale grinned, a spark in his eyes coming alive with the appearance of the crow’s feet at the edges of them. He nodded and moved past Crowley to the kitchenette.

Crowley stood there, processing, almost jumping out of his skin by the gentle swat on his jean-clad buttocks.

The angel’s laugh echoed through the bookshop.

“Bastard!” Crowley complained after him.

That only spurred on Aziraphale’s good mood, and a happy hum washed over the store while he prepared tea for them both.

Crowley stood there for a long while, sorting through his thoughts. Finally, coming back to himself to the rattle of teacups as Aziraphale set them up on the little tray to carry.

How stupid he must look, standing there, still as a statue? Crowley quickly launched himself towards the sofa, kicking off his shoes and leaning back, spreading his arms as if he was planning to melt into the cushions.

Aziraphale entered the room again, putting the tray on the table, the stolen crop dangling from his wrist as if unnoticed. He smiled at Crowley, who twitched a nod in return, mentally congratulating himself for presenting his composure so well, despite its complete absence.

The angel saved his wrist from the strap, fingertips testing the texture of the length. He stepped from foot to foot, something clearly on his mind.

“Whus the matter, angel?” Crowley prompted before he leaned forward to reach for his cup. “You look like you’re about to tell me Gabriel’s in your kitchen.”

Aziraphale tensed, then his whole body wobbled as he relaxed in a light chuckle. “Nonsense, my dear! What an absurd thought!”

Crowley knew _that_! But the fact that Aziraphale latched to his words instead of simply confessing his problem screamed volumes. “Wha’s got your panties in a bunch then?”

Aziraphale puffed up. He glared, gripping the crop tighter, making Crowley gulp down the tea without ever tasting it. Praying- hoping that Aziraphale couldn’t see the wide eyes behind his glasses.

A clatter of the ridiculously fancy teacup on even fancier saucer woke the angel from his musings. He deflated like a balloon, setting the crop on top of the closest book pile.

“You brought me a gift, my dear,” he said, staring at the carpet at Crowley’s feet, his fingers finding the comfort of his ring. “Am I wrong to presume that you wish me to use it?”

Crowley’s glasses might have been successfully hiding the wide stare, but they sure as hell didn’t hide his open mouth or the intense shaking of his head. “N-no,” he choked out, “not wrong.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s lips quirked up a little, eyes lifting up to his guest in that fond expression reserved only for his favorite things and his favorite demon. “Then, would you mind terribly if I fetch something that _I_ wanted to try out?”

Crowley’s brows and mouth worked overtime, figuring out how the words worked, before he sputtered, “Not at all, Aziraphale.”

“Great! I shall bring it, and then we shall finish our tea!” He hurried off.

Crowley scowled at his already empty cup. The tea from Aziraphale’s cup was still steaming. Did he just down boiling-hot tea without noticing? Huh …

It wasn’t long before the sound of steps on the rail announced Aziraphale’s return. Whatever he was keeping hidden upstairs must have excited him. Crowley knew enough about his friend to recognize the extra bounce in his step.

He twisted in his seat to catch Aziraphale’s eye before he dropped his look to take in a bundled piece of rope hanging from the angel’s forearm. “Oh,” was the only thing that came out of his mouth.

Aziraphale finally sat down into his reading chair, placing the bundle across his thighs, and reached to take his cooling tea, humming and closing his eyes at the perfect temperature. Crowley’s eyes jumped between the blissed-out face and the rope in his lap. Not knowing what his priority focus should be.

Was he fine with the rope? He had no idea. Sure he won’t complain about it, but every time he had been tied up proved to be an unpleasant experience - either he was banished from the village, tied to be exorcised, or was staring down a bunch of asshole angels ready to kill his best friend in cold blood.

Still, he didn’t move until Aziraphale gently put down his teacup and leaned forward, obviously ready for the much-needed conversation before they did anything.

“Crowley?”

Crowley grumbled in response, only now realizing that he started pulling into himself - legs crossed by the edge of the sofa, arms resting on his knees. He remembered the sprawled mess he forcefully pulled himself into, but somehow his traitorous corporation wouldn’t stay there.

“Are you sure, you want us to do this? You seem a bit nervous,” Aziraphale said. “We don’t have to, at all.”

Crowley reached up, pushing the foggy glasses up his forehead to dig his heels into his eye sockets. “It’s not that I don’t want to. Go-Sat- Nevermind. I want to. I jus’ don’t know … are you any good with that?”

“The crop?” Aziraphale reached over to the book pile, retrieving his gift. “I never hit anyone with it,” he confessed, “but I know how to use it to lead the animal to where I want it to go.”

Crowley found himself following the leather end of the tool with a single-minded focus of a snake following its prey.

It stopped in front of his nose, making him go cross-eyed. Aziraphale downright giggled at that, and Crowley glared at him.

“I meant the rope.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale discarded the crop and picked up the white bundle. It was clearly procured from some hardware store - not intimidating in the least, but that didn’t stop Crowley’s heart from pumping his blood faster for a fight-or-flight response.

He fisted his trousers and put on his best poker-face.

“I … practiced?” Aziraphale finally said. “This one is supposed to not be dangerous in the least. Its core was removed and isn’t that strong at all.”

That meant that Crowley could break from it at will, not even using a miracle. Okay, he could work with that. “Um, what … what part of me ‘ere you supposing to … tie this with?”

Aziraphale took a while with an actual answer. Thinking out loud for his and Crowley’s benefit. “I first thought to myself that tying your wrists together would be great fun to get some of your frustrations out … would be nice to see you still for once.” He chuckled to himself, not noticing Crowley’s nervous twitch. “But then I remembered all your stories, and I honestly don’t want to stress you right from the start, even if it is safe.”

Blue met with yellow, and Crowley was glad he could see deep consideration in the other’s depths. He put so much work onto Aziraphale without meaning to. Here the angel was, dancing around a demon’s problems. He didn’t have to do that. Crowley should have been fine with whatever. If he was fine with the pain they did so far, why would he fret because of the rope?

 _Because pain makes you feel, you idiot,_ his mind provided. _The rope makes you helpless to resist if needed._ Unless he uses a miracle to change. He didn’t want to use a miracle. What they were doing was intimate and he didn’t want to share it with their respective hosts in any way.

“But then what -” Crowley started, concerned in an answer.

“Your torso, if you were amendable,” Aziraphale offered.

“Torso?” His pathetic excuse for a body? There was nothing to tie there. He barely had any meat on the bone.

“Yes.” Aziraphale nodded, enthusiastically. “I have read that roped torso constricts breathing and reduces oxygen levels. Supposedly it changes the way one feels pain and pleasure.”

“Oxygen?” Crowley asked doubtfully. “You know we don’t have to breathe, angel.”

“We don’t have to, but we do! It’s easier!”

“It’s less complicated for the whole keeping the corporation alive. That’s all, angel.”

“Oh, won’t you try? I can untie you whenever you wish. And if you want you can miracle your way out of it easily!”

Crowley rolled his eyes. Damnit, but Aziraphale’s enthusiasm was infectious. It was only his torso, what could it hurt. He could still move away from Aziraphale’s touch whenever he wished. He wouldn’t be helpless.

“Sure, angel, why not. If you’re _that_ interested in how it works.”


	10. The Trust

_"I want to be inside your darkest everything."_  
_\- Frida Kahlo_

* * *

“Sure, angel, why not. If you’re _that_ interested in how it works, you can tie me up.”

The smile he got in return could light up England for a year. If only humans knew what sort of brightness was hiding in plain sight. Better they didn’t; this light was reserved for Crowley alone. He was feeling selfish.

“Wonderful!” Aziraphale stood up at once, the bundle of rope in hands. “Get up, my dear,” he motioned to Crowley with a finger. “Take off your shirt.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s lead. “Just my shirt?” he asked, his eyes falling to the discarded crop.

“Yes, for now.” Aziraphale nodded. “It takes a few minutes for the effects to settle in and start working on you.”

“If they’ll work at all,” Crowley muttered to himself while he unbuttoned his shirt.

Aziraphale hummed in reply as he stepped around Crowley to herd him to the middle of the empty space between the seats.

Crowley toed off his socks, wanting to feel grounded on the familiar carpet. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice discarded clothing, his eyes raking over Crowley’s front and back, lost in his planning.

Fingers played with the cord, rolling the thickness between fingers before he started to unwrap it. Crowley could see it was a sad excuse for a rope in the way it hit the ground, too light without the core to hold any proper structure if pressed.

Still, Aziraphale thought it proper to remind him with a stern voice, “If there is any tightness, any prickling, you let me know.”

Crowley nodded, but he couldn’t see Aziraphale standing behind him. “Tightness, prickling. Got it.”

“If you feel like it’s getting too much, making you anxious, tell me as well. I will free you immediately, and I will not be offended.”

Crowley clenched his teeth at the thought of disappointing Aziraphale in such a way. But more than that, he felt nervous about waking up without any proof of what they did. Not even an echo. Just a dream.

“Anything the matter, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, noting Crowley’s posture was turning tense.

“Could we …” Crowley thought about how to say it. “Nah, forget it.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked, moving to see Crowley’s profile better.

 _Good_ , Crowley was afraid the angel might crowd him. Not being in his face helped set his own thoughts to order, seeing for what they were. “Nevermind, it’s stupid.”

“Crowley, you expect an angel to trickle a limited amount of his wrath onto you. Clearly, there are no stupid requests,” Aziraphale chuckled, remaining still.

Crowley couldn’t help but follow his lead, laughing until he found himself staring at the ceiling, feeling a lightness in shoulders that wasn’t there before.

He looked at the ground; at Aziraphale hands, busy folding up shirt sleeves while still holding the means of Crowley’s future restriction. Then, finally, he met those blues, attentive and focused solely on him.

 _Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Here goes._ “Can we scrap the miracles?”

Aziraphale blinked, frozen to the spot, his hand still on his cuff button. “You want to …?” He was leaning back a bit, closing up on himself. Crowley recognized it immediately.

“No, no, angel!” he hurried to fix his slip of the tongue. “Not overall! Go- Sat- Hell, no!” He snorted at the absurdity. “I’d go mental!”

Aziraphale nodded, still watching him carefully.

“Just while … while we’re doing this.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him, returning to his previous posture with a relieved exhale. “Is this about the other day?”

Crowley didn’t need to ask what _other day_ he was talking about. “Aye,” he nodded.

“I won’t heal you unless I cross the line,” Aziraphale conceded.

“Your line is not in the same place as mine, angel,” Crowley protested.

Aziraphale sighed, taking a step back. “Then where is it?” He pulled on the rope and started gathering it up. “This isn’t working.”

“Umm, angel!” Crowley reached over, laying his hand over Aziraphale’s to stop him from putting the rope away. “Listen, we said we’d talk before … before we get to that point. So let’s talk now.”

Aziraphale paused, looking up at him.

Crowley lifted his eyebrows, waiting for the reply.

Aziraphale finally relented. “Very well. You first.”

Crowley nodded and rolled his eyes at the same time. “So, my line: discorporation-”

“No,” Aziraphale interjected. “That is not a line. That is too far, especially as our relationship with our respective hosts being what they are.”

“All right, but hear me out,” he pouted. “You said you would.”

Aziraphale crossed his arms. Downright crossed his arms like a child about to make a stand. But he didn’t talk. His lips were pressed together to prevent it.

“Look, you know I’m a demon, right? You remember that little detail?”

Aziraphale didn’t unclasp his lips. But his expression spoke volumes about his thoughts.

“Comes with a few nice perks,” he said grimacing. “I’ve been tortured, stoned, left in the desert, out in the storm, all kinds of things. Some bloke even decided that stabbing me in the throat with a lance would bring him glory! While I was minding my own businesses by the lake, disturbing nobody! Didn’t do much damage; it was his horse that scared me away. He’s still depicted as some saint or the other. The pompous, sanctimonious bastard!”

Aziraphale looked like he wanted to retort something, his eyes a storm, but remained standing and silent. Crowley focused on the bookshelf across the shop instead.

“The fact is that I can take a lot.” He took a breath. “I don’t mind going slow, so we can … feel around for what works and what doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to coddle me. I heal damn fast on my own.”

His eyes turned back to his friend, who was now biting at his cheek, seeming a bit more understanding of what Crowley meant.

“If it looks like something that could cause long-term problems with the corporation, I’d consider it. But if it’s just some scratching, bruises, even wounds … leave them,” Crowley concluded. “Besides, it itched for days the last time you did it.”

At this, Aziraphale’s brows lifted, concerned, a deep line digging between them. “It had?”

Crowley rubbed his shoulder in the memory. The memory of scratches starting there. The memory of a hand pushing down on him. The memory of the absence of it all. “‘Course it did, angel. You can’t just go around healing demons.”

Aziraphale was about to say something stupid; Crowley could just see it. Voice some endearment like he so often did. Not on his watch! Presenting his sneer prevented that right quick.

“Quite,” Aziraphale nodded. “No healing, unless you’re in danger of losing your corporation. And, may I only mention, I have no plans going that far in any case.”

“You’re too sweet, angel,” Crowley grinned at him, only realizing that Aziraphale still held the rope after he had said it.

The smile he got in return was radiant.

“Just making sure we’re on the same page, dear,” Aziraphale confirmed, returning to rolling up his other sleeve.

“And you?” Crowley asked carefully.

“Oh, I would not presume to burden you with my lines, especially because you keep on brushing them away, my dear.” He fumbled with the button, smoothing out the wrinkle. “Keeping control of myself is quite an achievement enough.”

Crowley chuckled. “So far, so good. And that’s _on top_ of you taking over for me as well. You’re doing great, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled his sweet smile, looking up at Crowley as if his words were some great gift that was too overwhelming to be fully acknowledged aloud.

 _You_ _know I love you,_ Crowley thought, not voicing it.

He knew what they were all about: two immortal beings sharing the experience of one world, sharing the aftermath of the flunked Apocalypse, sharing trust. And they felt stronger about each other than any mortal being could imagine. Be it love or annoyance. Be it in a moment over the glass of wine, or millions of miles apart. They experienced it together, and they had each other down by the tiniest twitch of the brow.

But even as they loved each other, thousands of years and trillions of beings later, one could only expect some diversity in preference was necessary. Aziraphale loved beautiful artistic souls, and Crowley … Crowley _tolerated_ hard-workers with a work-smart-not-hard mentality. The waitress who always bought out too many orders simultaneously so she could save herself a trip. The lowly accountant that taught himself to code so he could program the automatic tax calculator and get an extra few minutes of his life back. The outlaw who made Crowley a full suit of armor when he figured that Crowley bleeds quite a lot after he opened his mouth, and he had been fed up with stitching up the demon and his clothes almost every day.

They liked each other. But what other goddamn option do partners in crime have? And when some other temporary choice is presented, wouldn’t it be courtly to step back and tell them to ‘go get it!’ and not feel too bad about it - knowing full well that in the end, nothing runs as deep as the world-time of memories together.

And now, here they were, trying out new things. With each other, no less. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate and the Serpent of Eden. Smiling at one another like stupid idiots with no supervision, when one would be undoubtedly needed.

Aziraphale’s smile only disappeared once he moved behind Crowley again. But his voice was still light when he said, “Lift your arms, please.”

Crowley didn’t know how much he should lift them, so he let his fingers point to the ceiling, waiting for the rope to press down on his current feeling of lightness.

Aziraphale looped the first piece of rope around his ribs, over his pectorals. Then reversed the tension and ran it the other way, again over his torso, just above the first. He pulled a bit, making the rope hold position as he stepped to Crowley’s front.

It felt strange. Crowley _knew_ he was being tied up, but he didn’t feel the burning nerves that came with it. Aziraphale was still learning, making sure the double-folded rope ran where it was supposed to. Crowley only stood there, relaxed. He wasn’t even slightly intimidated when Aziraphale shifted the four lines across his torso this way and that so that one lane ran about two fingers above his nipples and the other two fingers under.

Crowley wasn’t an animal to be restrained. Aziraphale handled him as if he was a customer coming in for clothes fitting. And Crowley waited, a bit awkward, not knowing what to do, but sure that whatever he wasn’t doing was fine by the angel.

Aziraphale hummed his approval and stepped behind Crowley to weave the ropes. He huffed as he messed up and detangled it to repeat the process correctly. Slowly Crowley felt it was safe to lower his arms a bit, clearly not needing to struggle with clenching his muscles taut. He kept them lifted enough not to bother whatever Aziraphale was doing.

“Can I help?” he asked carefully, afraid he was intruding in his own roping-up.

“No, no, dear,” Aziraphale said, tapping the closest piece of skin that happened to be Crowley’s jutting shoulder-blade. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”

And wasn’t _that_ a strange statement at that moment? Crowley gave himself a minute to question it properly.

Aziraphale shifted the knot on his back, and two end-pieces of rope were thrown over each of Crowley’s shoulders, startling him a bit.

Before he managed to ask about it, Aziraphale was there again, pulling the excess together into the double column at his front.

Finally, they made eye contact as the angel looked up and regarded the demon, his eyes a mix of conviction and care. “You’re alright?”

Crowley, confused by the unnecessary question, shrugged and stepped from one foot to another. “Nothing worrisome so far.”

Aziraphale’s fingers touched his solar plexus, testing the tightness of the rope there. “Very good.”

Crowley felt a bit helpless when he was drawn forward, a knot digging into his back. He could step and tear away from the hold, but the movement felt intimate somehow, and he didn’t want to break that.

“The following is going to be a bit more intense, my dear. You might feel a shortness of breath. Please tell me if it is more you can handle.”

Crowley blinked as Aziraphale pushed the rope column under the line running across the lower part of his chest. Because of the previous tautness, the additional layer pressed deeper into his skin. The tail was then led around the rope above.

Then Aziraphale pulled.

Oh.

_Oh._

The two lines running over Crowley’s chest so snuggly before were forced together into one knot, giving his ribs less room to work with, pressuring out some of the air residing in his lungs.

Crowley had worn a corset before. And this was a similar feeling. But somehow unexpected and upside-down. Corset restricted his stomach, his diaphragm; this left his abdomen free, but useless for breathing due to pressure on his ribs.

“How are we?” Aziraphale asked, messing with the tails of the rope, placing them alongside those already running over Crowley’s shoulders and moving behind him again.

Crowley was glad that his shocked face wasn’t being examined, giving him enough time to process this thing, this new sensation on his own.

“F-fine,” he choked out, realizing it sounded forced. “I’m fine,” he remedied with his casual tone before Aziraphale could come to the wrong conclusion.

Because it wasn’t _not fine_. He could breathe. He could talk. He could move. His limbs were free. But there was a little red light in his mind silently sending off quiet alarms. His chest was restrained; his breathing limited. All the while, he still effortlessly took in air.

Aziraphale finished the knot on his back, secured it so no excess rope would get in the way. “Tickety-boo!” he declared as he stepped back and around Crowley, examining his work.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Crowley admitted, struggling as he tested expanding his ribs as far as they should be able to go with no luck.

“Any discomfort?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, you mentioned something about constricting my breathing, and yeah. I think that’s what’s happening here.” Crowley shifted this way and that, scowling as the rope didn’t force him to be still as much as moved _with_ him. He wasn’t used to that.

Is this what it felt like that time he put a bit of a scotch-tape on a cat’s tail, and the animal started a whole hissy-fit because it couldn’t take a good hold on it?

He said as much, and Aziraphale giggled in response, the bastard.

“What now?” he asked a bit testily as Aziraphale moved back to his comfy-chair.

They’ve agreed on something, and the angel sure was taking his sweet time getting to it. Crowley wanted that sweet burn. He missed it. He missed the high and the clarity that came after.

“Well,” Aziraphale sighed, “I was going to wait for it to take some effect, but if you’re going to keep harassing me about it…”

A light tap on Crowley’s lower abdomen made him look down at the leather end of the crop resting there.

He swallowed thickly. “I-” Crowley huffed at the loss of words, tearing his mind from the barely-there feel just above his waistline. “I do not harass!” he choked out. Cleared his throat to get his voice in order. “I ask repeatedly until you agree.”

The glance he got in response to his words made him believe that Aziraphale won’t have to try hard to get into his smiting mood.

“Straighten up,” Aziraphale said, his voice suddenly ten degrees colder than before.

The leather end traveled over his skin, up to the rope and over, tapping on his collarbone. Crowley straightened up further, beyond what the knots were already imposing on him.

Aziraphale stood up, putting their heads at the level.

“I said, up,” he said, his eyes sharp.

The crop’s end pressed under Crowley’s chin now, forcing him to lift his gaze until he stared somewhere over the angelic curls. He felt his pupils narrow into slits and then widen as he tried to focus on something, some spot on the ancient book-spines, his awareness constantly interrupting to remind him of his slightly shivering body. He didn’t feel cold; what were the shivers about?

“Feel that?” Aziraphale asked him as he dragged his gift gently over the edge of Crowley’s jaw, following its line.

“Mmm,” Crowley nodded.

“Up!” Aziraphale insisted, the end of the crop pushing up into the soft middle of Crowley’s jaw almost painfully.

Crowley looked up again, the pressure unexpected.

“Use words, please.”

“Yep,” Crowley popped the p despite the bottom of his mouth still aching. Perhaps because of it.

“Take a deep breath for me, dear,” Aziraphale prompted, his kind words not fitting the ring of the tone.

Crowley did, a bit relieved that the crop disappeared from the direct proximity of his face. He was sure he could hear the ropes straining in the silence of the bookshop.

He took in as much air as he could, holding it in, basking in the current situation. He was being held together by something that wasn’t his own body. He felt less alert, yet somehow more sensitive to the dusty air around him, to the micro-movement of air, to the barely-there temperature change.

A simple touch to his skin almost made him jump back and scream.

He shuddered whole and looked down to the brown rectangle against his nipple. Not even moving, just there. The leather on sensitive skin. It sent an impulse from the point of touch into his spine, where it shot up into two directions, up to short-circuit his brain, and down to his groin, setting it alight instantly. The sudden arousal was so intense, his buttocks clenched on their own accord.

“Up!” Aziraphale ordered again, this time a finger pushing into Crowley’s chin.

That was weird. For half a moment, Crowley forgot that the angel was even there. Too busy with the surprises his own corporation was giving him.

Crowley’s breath hitched as the crop was dragged across his exposed chest, trapped between two columns of rope.

“Working, is it?” Aziraphale asked, the undertone of his bastard smirk impossible to miss.

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley exhaled soundly, “it’s doing _some_ thing.”

“Language,” a ringing sound reminded him.

He didn’t know when the crop disappeared. But the touch of it on his other nipple was just as bad as the one before, if not worse. This time he really did jump back.

His retreat was prevented by the hand grabbing the knot above his sternum, winding the rope even tighter.

The confines of his trousers grew to become painful fast. He reached down one-handed to undo his belt, to give himself at least some additional room to work with.

“Ah-ah,” Aziraphale tutted, tapping his tool on the offending hand.

Crowley’s fingers stopped. Waited.

Another tap.

Aziraphale didn’t even need to say it. Crowley lifted his hand away from the buckle. Letting the limb be led up by the barely-there touch of the crop. Making sure he gave no indication just how badly the silent order thwarted his plans.

His voice box didn’t get the memo. A pitiful whine escaped him.

He could feel the air around him shift. He could feel Aziraphale’s energy grow and spread, suddenly much less soft and much more sinister. No wings showed up, but they would be covered in eyes and possibly glowing in angelic power if they did.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “Crowley.”

“Yes?” Crowley asked, not daring to move from still staring unseeing over Aziraphale’s head, his arm lifted where the crop had abandoned it.

“Our talk before, about the lines …”

“Still holds,” Crowley maintained.

He made sure that he spoke clearly, blinking the daze temporarily away. Aziraphale had to know that Crowley knew what was going on. That he gave his consent to whatever would follow.

 _Discoporation_ , that was his line. And he trusted Aziraphale to not even toe it. All of Aziraphale.

“If … if I do something unseemly …” Aziraphale whispered as if someone else was there to hear them. “… something that you do not like … only tell me, and I will stop.”

“I know you will,” Crowley said back, believing.

He heard the last soft exhale. He was then pulled by the knot on his chest that Aziraphale still held, and twisted around until he faced the sofa.

A strong hand let go, only to catch him by the weave on his back, pushing him forward and down.

He got the picture fast and bent over until he placed his arms on the sofa’s back. It was a bit forceful, but there was tenderness behind the precision that was unmistakably Aziraphale. The fact that the hand remained gently resting on his back, pinning him as well as caressing him only enforced this.

He had no idea where the crop was, but Aziraphale’s other hand reached around to fumble with his belt-buckle, searching for the fastest way to open it. Crowley realized that Aziraphale was leaning over him, lining himself to his back. There was Aziraphale’s own effort digging into the round of his bottom.

But the angel didn’t seem to notice this predicament. Freeing Crowley from his belt, he fumbled with a button, pausing at the zipper.

“Crowley?” he asked, his voice the tensest Crowley had ever heard it.

“Still fine,” Crowley choked out, leaning on one hand and reaching down himself.

“No,” Aziraphale batted his hand away, pushing him further until Crowley had to drop to his elbows.

“Fuck, ‘Zira,” Crowley groaned, chasing Aziraphale’s working hand with his still-clothed groin.

“That’s two,” Aziraphale muttered.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Three.”

The hand pushing him down was replaced by Aziraphale’s front leaning on Crowley, buttons of his waistcoat digging into his lower back. Both hands dragging Crowley’s trousers and underwear down to his thighs. Aziraphale’s lower parts moved away to give him room to free his pale flat bottom.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, leaning away, a hand cupping Crowley’s behind, barely touching.

“Fuck, angel,” Crowley growled. “Still here. Get to fucking work!”

“Five,” Aziraphale sighed, stepping back and to the side. Hand coming up to pull at Crowey’s ropes.

This time Crowley did not curse, not for the lack of trying. His whole body surged upwards with the ropes and slammed back down to his previous position. His knees shook, his elbows carrying more weight than before.

Then the hand traveled upwards into his hair, scratched at the scalp. He would purr in response. But then it dropped down to the nape of his neck, and he knew what followed.

“Five strikes,” Aziraphale said, cold and authoritative. “Five strikes for five curses.”

“Seriously?” Crowley’s high pitched tone was interrupted by the sharp smack on his ass.

It was not hard by any means, and he would wave it off to be merely a touch if not for the extremely sharp burn that came a few seconds later.

He hissed. It barely left his mouth when the second strike on the other side made him groan and then hiss again.

The third and fourth didn’t even give him the time to respond - each leaving a red stripe underneath the first ones.

The fifth hit the upper part of his thigh, and that one burned worse than all of them put together.

A clatter of the crop falling to the ground barely registered. Because then, Aziraphale’s hand was back, cradling his left cheek, both cooling and inflaming the freshly abused flesh.

Crowley’s forehead rested on his forearm, elbows still digging into the sofa cushion. He took deep breaths and quietly appreciated his effort’s indecency, the constricting feeling of trousers around his thighs, and the airflow on his assaulted behind.

Aziraphale undid the knot on his back so quickly Crowley questioned if it had been truly tied up in the first place. It all fell around him in a heap, as a few pulls from the angel was all it took to detangle him.

He refused to be manhandled into any position, pushing Aziraphale’s hands away. Muttering, “I’m fine. Gimme a minute.” Dealing with it on his terms, he pushed his pants down the rest of the way and face planted onto the sofa, naked.

Again.

His angel approached him again, saying something, his voice soft, his tone suspiciously apologetic.

“Told you I’m fine, angel.” Crowley muttered. “Be with you in a sec. Just sit and let me get my breath back.”

A crunching sound of cushions as Aziraphale obediently slumped into his precious comfy-chair.

Crowley took another breath. His ribs expanding to the fullest, his body aching. His mind cleared and cooled off. Finally, able to take stock of his current state.

Finally deciding just how much he trusted his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to the super-fast beta that is probably the proofreading Flash in disguise: [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers) ...
> 
> [BDSM rant]  
> The knot is a bit personalized (more hardcore) Bikini Harness ... with extra tension on the sternum knot (between breasts). I find that this one fits skinny males better if you want to lower their oxygen intake and it starts working faster than any karada out there. 
> 
> The rope is a homage to my second hard-store bought rope when I knew the core was a nuisance but had no idea where to properly find the coreless ones. It was an ugly thing and was later repurposed into a practice weave of cat-o’-nine-tails.
> 
> My crop was bought at a horseriding shop. Some sex-shop toys are just a shitty quality. 
> 
> Yes, I'm into this. Yes, I teach - so much in fact that it's turning into a nonsexual thing for me. No, I am not in any way a professional.  
> [/rant]
> 
> If you want more BDSM rant, tell me. I have no idea if people actually read Notes.


	11. Embracing His Expanse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments appreciated.

_"Chaos is an angel who fell in love with a demon."_  
_\- Christopher Poindexter_

* * *

Aziraphale stared at Crowley spread out on the sofa for a while. He was almost unmoving, except for the rise and fall of his form as he took in air. There were red lines across his ribs and back, tracing where the rope dug into the flesh. Perhaps there would be bruising.

Aziraphale’s fingers itched, but he did not reach over and to miracle the marks away. Instead, he sat, trying to comprehend the vastness that was Crowley.

This creature made of lines, smooth skin, and wine-colored hair - all that was only the surface of it. Watching Crowley being still was like watching a deep, deep well, or a night sky. There was an extent to him - so much in fact that Aziraphale couldn’t begin to guess where it ended if it ever did.

Other beings were so simple compared to Crowley. Fish swam, birds flew, animals ate and reproduced. Angels and demons waited for the impermanence to come to an end so they could have their war - filling time with little senseless jobs. Humans were more complicated; they came up with brilliant ideas, creations of their own - they loved and hated so vehemently - but at the end of the day, their life was too short to get any real depth to it.

Aziraphale felt like he merely existed most of the time. His goal was to absorb as many stories that he could hold on to, never giving them away. Taking good care of them - he was a guardian foremost after all. All the little worlds authors provided were Aziraphale’s personal Edens since the first one lost its use.

But Crowley … Crowley was another matter entirely. Aziraphale still lived in the past. Kept to it, clutching it to his breast as if it was a single star that he was afraid to let go. Crowley was a universe containing galaxies. Endless, always spreading outwards, thousand, millions of little things that made him, him. Ever-changing. Some stars dying, others being born anew. Black holes swallowing systems were but a minor setback for Crowley. He always found a workaround, always found new things to do. Trusting that new universe was there for him if only he looked hard enough.

Aziraphale had put his faith in Her. In her eternal love and a path of choices that she provided for him.

Crowley put his faith in endless possibilities.

Sometimes he scared Aziraphale. Not when he got angry or annoyed. Not when he gritted his teeth and gave him that condescending stare. No, he scared Aziraphale when he was sad, when he slept, when he quietly contemplated the wine they were drinking. Because at that point, Aziraphale had no idea what went on behind those violently golden eyes. At those moments, Crowley could have a breakdown, he could leave without a word, he could sleep for a hundred years, or he could come up with a crazy, suicidal idea, could ask Aziraphale to leave with him, could ask an angel to hurt him. There were so many possibilities.

Aziraphale felt himself growing emotional as he stared at those lines that made up the demon corporation. The lines that somehow contained Crowley.

Crowley sighed on the sofa, letting out a groan.

Aziraphale swallowed that emotion and stood up. He threw a blanket over Crowley, who whined in response, and moved on to retrieve the pile of books on his working table, taking them back to his comfy-seat. With a heavy sigh, he sat back and put on his white cotton gloves.

He fished out the tome that was pressed between the other books, tested the spine. It held magnificently, looked almost new, shiny, not even a page out of place. Another job well done.

He opened it on his knees to carefully leaf through to check for any looseness.

Another groan and a crinkle of the couch fabric - sounds of Crowley moving.

Aziraphale had been fully immersed in the last few pages when a hand grabbed the tome and slid it right out of his grip.

He looked up, peeved. “Dear, you can’t -”

Crowley stood there, bleary-eyed, teeth biting on the lower lip, hair still tousled. And most of all, completely naked. Blanket a pool around his feet. Aziraphale’s train of thought derailed, leaving no survivors.

“Crowley, what-”

Then he got a lapful of demon; smooth-skinned, naked demon.

Crowley climbed up on his seat, knees digging between Aziraphale’s thighs and the cushions. His eyes darted around, meeting Aziraphale’s every so often, his breath stuttering. But the lines of his brows told a different story: he was in one of his stubborn moods.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. He read that the submissive party’s care was necessary after the act, but Crowley refused him. He supposed that Crowley didn’t trust him not to heal, and candidly, he was probably right to do so. It was Aziraphale’s first reaction, despite what they talked about, and he barely stopped himself.

So, Aziraphale supposed he could keep an eye on Crowley as he dozed off.

But here they were, Crowley in his lap, seeking comfort, shaking, biting his lips at a loss of words.

Aziraphale reached out, wrapping his arms around Crowley lithe form to ground him.

Crowley melted into his embrace at first. But soon, he let out a whine and pushed away until Aziraphale was forced to let it go.

 _What_ ’ _s the matter, my dear?_ He didn’t ask it, though, not with the air between them too fragile for real words.

Crowley took in a breath. It stuttered; Aziraphale could hear it from this close. The demon’s shakes paused only for a moment.

Those eyes still looked fearful, a round yellow with a slitted pupil that kept expanding and narrowing back. Lips red from abuse. Aziraphale saw it all. Thought about stretching up and linking them with his own. Wondering what Crowley would taste like. Would it be the sulfur of hell? That didn’t seem right. Perhaps it would be like wine; they consumed enough of it during the centuries to hold. Or would it just be a deep taste of endless possibilities that Crowley was? Like stardust?

Crowley’s breathing hitched like he could read the angel’s mind. He leaned back a bit, pressing his lips tightly closed and twisting his face to the side.

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped.

“Sssorry.” The word was like a whisper of the wind.

One of Aziraphale’s hands reached up from Crowley’s shoulder to his cheek, silently asking Crowley to face him.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” he whispered. “I understand.” Even though he didn’t. Not really. But Crowley had to know he would not push.

Crowley blinked, the shadow of a smile pressing up at the edge of his mouth.

Aziraphale reached higher, dragged a finger behind the demon’s ear. There, where the wire of the glasses usually so snugly rested. The other hand gripped a bicep to assure that he was still there to comfort -

Crowley gasped at the double sensation and fell forward, resting his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale quickly caught his hips so he wouldn’t stumble ungracefully out of the chair.

With a high-pitched whine, Crowley dragged himself up, breath tickling Aziraphale’s ear. “‘Ziraphale … please,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

“What do you need, my love?”

A nose bumped against his earlobe, Crowley’s hands scrambled around to catch one of Aziraphale’s wrists, unaware that his breath was slowly causing the angel’s mind to turn into mush.

Aziraphale linked their fingers, cotton cloth preventing him from experiencing the smoothness of Crowley’s skin fully. But even through the fabric, he could feel how cold the demon’s hands were. With his other, Crowley tore their grip apart and led Aziraphale lower.

It was only when his knuckles brushed against something warm - such a contrast to the rest of Crowley’s skin! - did Aziraphale get the picture. He froze, eyes wide open, staring over Crowley’s shoulder into the bookshop as if he suddenly found himself in an unfamiliar place.

“Please,” the words tickled his ears, “touch me. You said you can make it feel good.”

Really, that was all he needed to hear, for his mind to snap like elastic back to their current situation.

“Of course, dear,” he whispered into Crowley’s shoulder and slotted the fingers of his other hand above the hip-bone.

He felt Crowley tense his muscles before relaxing himself again as an afterthought.

“I shall certainly try.” With those words, he dragged the cotton-covered knuckles up and down Crowley’s member.

Crowley finally let go of his wrist and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s neck instead, holding on and hiding his face in the angel’s shoulder. Trembling.

“It’s all right, my dear.” The drag of Aziraphale’s touch became a shade more purposeful. “Everything will be alright.” His knuckle bumped the notch under the mushroom-shaped head.

Crowley bucked in his lap and released a high-pitched whine, almost hurtful to the angel’s ear from so close up.

“If you wish to stop-”

“No!” A huff against his curls made Aziraphale’s toes clench. “No, it’s good.”

“Tickety-boo then,” Aziraphale declared, voice just as thin.

A snort morphed into a growl, fingers that held him close tightening. He could sense the inhale, the telltale type that he learned to connect with Crowley mouthing off.

He went to properly grab the demon’s member in his hand.

Whatever Crowley was going to say died out as he melted further into Aziraphale’s soft curves. Only his bottom butting out, trying to keep his intimate parts formally distant, yet close enough to be manipulated with.

Aziraphale’s hand barely made it around Crowley’s erection due to their position, upper-half of his arm trapped between their pressed chests. He gripped it hard, held position without squeezing, and pumped once. Up and down.

“Oh!” Crowley yelped, shaking worse than Aziraphale has ever seen him.

Aziraphale pumped again, making sure to bump against the head. Right where he remembered the scar to be, not that he could see it now.

“Um … hhhh,” Crowley shook, his grip on Aziraphale turning painful.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale carefully whispered in the ear so close to him.

“Y-Y-yeah?”

“Are you quite sure, you’re -”

“Fine, angel,” Crowley insisted.

Aziraphale frowned. “Then, my dear, I’m going to need you to lean back a bit.”

Crowley whined at that.

“Only want to see you, love.”

Slowly, Crowley obeyed. Aziraphale made sure not to move the hand that was gripping Crowley’s more sensitive parts.

Crowley leaned far enough to keep his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders but otherwise gave them enough room to breathe. They studied one another, Aziraphale losing himself reading from those yellow eyes, not a trace of white in them, the pupil narrowing and stretching with absurd insistence.

“Relax, dear,” Aziraphale murmured between them, not sure what Crowley saw reflected in his own eyes. “I have you.”

Crowley’s half-opened mouth closed, his pupil stilling in something half-alert, not blinking.

Aziraphale hummed in encouragement. “I have you … and I’m going to take good care of you.” He smiled, trying to radiate warmth. “All right?”

Crowley silently nodded, his eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale stroked once, nice and proper now that he could finally see what he was doing. Up all the way to Crowley’s tip and over, squeezing the soft mushroom, before dragging his hand back down right to the root.

Crowley’s quivering cut off, his mouth fell open, and his head fell back, eyes closed.

“Look how beautiful you are,” Aziraphale continued to whisper between them. “Here, on my lap.”

He stroked again, and his shoulders got squeezed tight. He could feel Crowley’s nails digging through the fabric. He will have to use a miracle to fix his waistcoat. But that was a worry for later.

“Stunning to see you like this.” He stroked but stopped right under the sensitive head.

A high-pitched whine escaped his love.

“However, my dear, are you listening?”

“Hhh ... hah?” Crowley asked the ceiling, unable to close his mouth still.

“… I’m going to need you to start moving on your own a bit.” Aziraphale dragged his palm over the head and down again. “Can you do that? For me?”

Crowley nodded, still holding his position. But with the next stroke, Azraphale could feel, more than see, Crowley’s hips give a bit of a stutter.

One hand released Aziraphale’s shoulder, only to smack against the place it had been grasping. Guttural sounds escaped Crowley as he flailed around, grabbing the bicep that kept his hips safe, squeezing, before searching for another purchase on the second downward stroke.

“Ffff … ‘Zira …” Crowley tried to form coherent words, but all Aziraphale could hear was a man drowning.

“Breathe, my dear. Don’t forget to breathe.”

A great inhale, a sound like a snow-blizzard bursting in the door. Crowley’s hand gripped the cushioned armrest of Aziraphale’s favorite chair as he rocked forward and back in truth now, the other still on Aziraphale’s shoulder, keeping himself grounded to the angel.

“That’s it,” said angel encouraged, “take it at your own speed.”

Hips rushed to obey, and Aziraphale was forced to steady Crowley’s hip to prevent him from rocking the whole chair with both of them still in it. He could see precum beading at the top.

“Not too fast, dear. It’s not a race.”

Crowley gripped his one shoulder tighter in reply and faltered, just barely. His hips still diligently pumping.

Aziraphale made sure he still struck all of Crowley’s sensitive spots but kept his gloved hand away from the forming drops. His own experience told him that stroking with a wet cloth led to painful injuries on the sensitive skin.

“I have you,” he repeated. “It’s about the journey.”

A half-sob escaped the demon, and he finally looked down. Gold eyes with a stretched out, almost-round pupil, regarded Aziraphale’s open face.

“Don’t you want this journey of ours to last?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley slowed down significantly, stuttered his hips almost to a halt. Until Aziraphale’s nudging got them going again, but marginally less urgently. He followed the rhythm of Aziraphale’s suggestion. Together they tried different frequencies and depths. So much depth.

Aziraphale could see the point where they hit the correct movement. He could see it dawning on Crowley as well. The zap of pleasure that made the demon stretch up and almost pause. He made sure to memorize the stroke - the upward drag, passing digit digging under the head, the squeeze at the top, barely avoiding the precum, and then back down with the same motion, the pressure quite firmer from the one they’d started.

They repeated the motion, Crowley pumping deep into Aziraphale’s grip.

He only lasted three more strokes before he pitched forward, back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, nipping at the skin of his neck as if he wanted to hold onto the angel with everything he had. “Love you,” he said, unmistakably between the bites.

“I know.”

A hand clutched Aziraphale’s wrist at Crowley’s hip. Dragged it away now that Crowley figured out the tempo that was clearly new and most pleasurable to him.

Aziraphale paused his strokes, letting Crowley do all the work, trying to figure out where the demon’s hand was leading him. Then he felt the soft-hard flesh of Crowley’s buttocks, the cold skin, and the welts there giving out the contrast of heat that he could feel even through the glove.

A mouth at his neck begged. “Please, angel, please. Please make me feel like … like …”

Vocabulary disappeared from Crowley’s mind as soon as Aziraphale squeezed the flesh he had been presented.

“Jussssst sssso,” Crowley hissed into his ear. “Yessss, oh, ‘Zirahale … Just sooo ...”

His pounding quickened. Urgent, deep, entirely in his control.

“G-Sat- Ne’ r’ mind. Only you, angel. Ffff-aaah!”

“There you are. Take your pleasure,” Aziraphale cooed, squeezing tighter.

“Tha’a-aah-‘n order?”

Aziraphale felt the tongue on his ear shell. It sent shivers down his spine. _Do you want it to be?_

He took a gamble, grasped at the tortured backside to keep himself grounded, and whispered in Crowley’s ear, desperately keeping his voice under control.

“I think you know.”

Crowley’s hips stuttered, missed a beat, replaced it with twice the speed. He let out an inhuman growl mixed with an urgent cry. “I’m gonna - Zira, I’m gonna …”

Aziraphale had to use a lot of his strength to push Crowley deeper into his lap just by pressing against the demon’s behind with one hand. He covered and cupped the head of Crowley’s member with the other. He felt liquid striking his palm. Felt it seeping through the glove. Felt the incredible heat of Crowley’s ejaculate as Crowley’s hips stuttered for the last few times before finally calming down.

Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s behind to pull the glove over his hand and catch the gunk inside. With the other, he wiped what remained on his hand and Crowley’s member.

Crowley barely hissed at the overstimulation, his head heavy on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale discarded both gloves and reached around to pull his friend deeper into his embrace, marveling at the new depths of them both that his demon discovered.

Marveling the vastness that was Crowley, captured in this single creature in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers) for the beta and your kind words!
> 
> Encouraging comments appreciated.  
> Tell me what you think!


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